A New Life For Captain Jack Sparrow
by Bainpeth
Summary: Jack Sparrow must take on a new identity - that of a spy
1. Default Chapter

A New Life by Kazren/Bainpeth The Characters are owned by Disney - just playing. Rated: PG for language and situations To read this with pictures - visit   
  
Even out on the open sea with a easterly wind blowing hard, the sound of a canon's gun filled the air with a mighty blast. Jack gritted his teeth.  
  
"Dirty bastards!" He scanned the other vessel with dark eyes. His senses took in everything, estimating when they'd actually be in range of one another as the other ship's ball splashed harmlessly off their starboard side.  
  
"Bloody hell," Jock cursed with his heavy Scot accent. "Don't they know this here is the Black Pearl?"  
  
"Well ram that information up their arses for 'em," Jack said confidently.  
  
"Sail a'stern!" the watch called from the crows nest.  
  
"What?" Jack snapped his spyglass open and looked off the stern. Sure enough, another ship was headed their way. With the falling light, she'd be lucky to find them before everything went black.  
  
He turned his attention to the weather. Dark storm clouds rolled low over a slate sea. His elflocks blew widely around his head like Medusa's snakes. He reached a hand up to press his hat on more firmly. Steadying the spyglass, he studied the other ship. There was the hint of red, blue and white on the flag flying from her aft mast. "British Navy," he called. "What are they doing out here?"  
  
"Probably searchin' for us," Gibbs said coming up beside Jack. "Or our new friends there."  
  
The words brought Jack's attention back to the ship closing on them. "I thought we were faster," he mumbled half out-loud.  
  
"She's got the wind in her favor, unless you want to risk those shoals, Capt'n." Gibbs' voice was even.  
  
Casting a sidelong glance at the shoals Jack knew lay hidden off their port side, he shook his head. He wouldn't risk all their lives on the rocks. Besides, they looked evenly matched with the mystery ship.  
  
"Who are they?" he asked, bewildered.  
  
The Pearl's reputation was known far and wide, which meant no pirate of sound mind had tried to take her. Before today, that was. "Get the guns rolled out to greet our friends," Jack said evenly. "Have Maynard give him a welcoming shot."  
  
"Aye, aye, sir," Gibbs turned and hollered at the gunners.  
  
All flames had already been put out at the first sign of an enemy. The powder monkeys were running from gun to gun. Each cannon had men assigned to prime, load and fire the cannon balls. Gibbs went down among them, handing out daggers and grappling hooks. The Pearl was on the offensive. "Well show these dogs what a sea wolf is like," Gibbs said merrily. "Mr. Maynard, let's test a shot, if you please."  
  
The aft-most cannon fired a shot high in the air. It came down dozens of feet in front of the mystery ship's bow.  
  
Everything was taking time, Jack thought, but the seconds and minutes did tick by. Time was in his favor.  
  
All light was almost gone by the time the other ship came close enough for Jack's spyglass to identify her.  
  
"It's the Muratania!" Jack growled. He and the other ship's captain, Heinrich von der Kirchhoff, were sworn enemies. The wily Dutchman had tried upon more than one occasion to swindle Jack, and now he had commandeered a ship from the Germans. Everyone in Tortuga had been abuzz about it.  
  
Gibbs was half-way up the steps. "We'll get 'im this time, Capt'n."  
  
"Aye. We'll blow 'im out of t'water," Jack agreed.  
  
"Ready," he called down to the gunners.  
  
"Ready," Gibbs echoed.  
  
Jack raised an arm and watched as he swung the wheel every so slightly to the right and the Pearl, beauty that she was, responded like a dream. "Fire!" Jack yelled as her guns came to bear on the German vessel a full minute before she could respond to the Pearl's tack.  
  
The air was filled with smoke, blasting noise, and the sparks of cannons. The Pearl rocked slightly as the guns on her decks let go their deadly missiles. Jack looked down at his men. Those on the starboard side were all manning the guns, a few stood with sword or belaying pin in hand, waiting a chance to storm aboard the Muratania.  
  
Then the other ship's cannons blazed to live, sending balls of iron flying through the air, hitting Jack's precious ship. His helmsman stood by as Jack guided his ship by instinct, his mind constantly sensing the wind, the sound of it in the sails, the way the ship responded to the gunfire she was taking.  
  
"Here," he yelled to the helmsman, stepping back to look up at the mast. A ball had hit a crossbeam, and one of the sails was useless.  
  
Even as Jack looked up, another ball crashed into the mast directly behind the wheel, sending lethal splinters of wood flying. The blast of it knocked Jack backwards, even as a piece of wood the size and thickness of a man's hand sunk into his left shoulder. He felt the railing at his back for only a moment, then he was falling, too stunned to cry out.  
  
He crashed into the water. The sea was frigid. He tried to claw his way upwards, but his left arm wouldn't work. He kicked as hard as he could in boots he'd swam in many a time. At last, he bobbed to the surface in time to see the Pearl, still locked in a deadly battle with the Muratania, sailing away. He wondered if anyone even knew he'd been knocked overboard.  
  
His plight, he knew, was hopeless, yet it was not in Captain Jack Sparrow to give up. The choppy water caused him to rise and fall like a cork as he tried to keep his head above its cold embrace. And the wood sat like a giant sword in his shoulder, stealing his energy as quickly as the cold water did. Yet with two good legs and one good arm, he began to swim after his ship. He had the thought that some fortunate hunk of wood from one of the ships might have been blown into the water with him.  
  
He couldn't see much now except for the flashes of cannon fire from the two ships as they continued to pull away form him. The sound of the cannon fire echoed over the water, blown by the fast winds. It was so damned cold. He wondered how such a tropical place could get so cold.  
  
He began to realize things were slowing down. His arms. His legs. His mind. He wanted to close his eyes, but then it would be over, so he tried to force them open, but things were growing darker and darker and there wasn't much left to see. He could feel himself shivering. That was a good sign, wasn't it? Then even that sensation was drawn from him, leeched away by the cold waters. He barely noticed the pain in his shoulder anymore.  
  
The last coherent thought he had as he slipped beneath the waves was that everyone had been wrong. You could breathe water.  
  
"Is he alive?" Captain Goves asked, leaning over his men to stare at the unmoving man they'd plucked from the sea.  
  
Quist, the Marine Sergeant looked over his shoulder. Their eyes met. "He shouldn't be, sir."  
  
"Let me see him," the ship's surgeon, Mr. Holmes demanded. Groves hadn't heard him come up. How had he known, he vaguely wondered.  
  
As the drowned man's face came into the light a "I know him," escaped Groves' lips with the tone of surprise. He said no more, clamping his mouth shut. It was Jack Sparrow. The pirate.  
  
Mr. Holmes, who was well under five feet in height, turned to Quist, who stood well over six feet in height, saying in a calm voice, "Mr. Quist, if you please, raise him up by the waist, face down." He demonstrated with empty hands, as the wind swirled his gray hair around his head like a halo.  
  
"Aye, aye." Quist replied.  
  
Groves watched still in numbed surprise as Quist handed his rifle off to the dripping wet sailor, Francis Cutter. The sailor had plucked their infamous guest from the sea with the help of a sling usually used to help officers from one ship to another.  
  
Quist picked the unconscious pirate up under the waist, his two hands clenched together. Even wet, Jack didn't appear to weigh much to a man of Quist's size.  
  
"Now heave up and down, knock the water from him," Holmes instructed. "Be careful of that wood sticking out of him." He waived a sailor carrying a lantern closer. Groves found himself leaning in closer, too. Jack looked so white in the pale light of the lantern.  
  
Besides the sound of water dripping from Jack and his heroic rescuer, they all heard the sound of the charms and bangles the pirate wore in his hair. That and the wind, which was picking up speed.  
  
"Again, Mr. Quist, if you please," Holmes instructed. The older man looked over at Groves with a glance that said the rescue might have been in vain.  
  
Then Groves heard Jack cough as water poured from his mouth and nose. Theodore felt a release of tension in his own chest, a worried knot he'd not been aware of until that moment.  
  
"Good work, Mr. Quist," Captain Groves complimented the Sergeant. "I want word of this to stay among the five of us. No one is to know who this person is or what he looks like."  
  
"Aye, aye, sir." Quist was nothing if not a military man. He knew how to take and enforce an order.  
  
"Now, Sergeant, since you are the largest of us, please carry him to my chartroom." Groves instructed. "We can turn the table into a bed." He looked around. "Where's my steward?"  
  
"Here, sir," came the voice of Jamie Trustwall. It was Jamie who held the lantern, Groves realized belatedly.  
  
"Good," Groves nodded. "Jamie, please get a mattress from one of the officer's beds and bring it to the chart room at once."  
  
"On my way, sir," Jamie said. He handed the lantern to Dr. Holmes and rushed into the darkness.  
  
Rumbling thunder rolled across the sea, followed by a flash of lightning. The first drops of what promised to be a healthy storm began to fall.  
  
Quist turned their sputtering guest over and stood up, holding the man like a child in his arms. "Quickly now," Holmes instructed. "The fellow's going to get pneumonia out here. Blasted weather."  
  
With Groves in the lead, they headed towards the captain's cabin and on to where Jamie was already unrolling a mattress across the map table in an alcove referred to as the chart room. In a larger ship of the line, it might actually be a room, but in ships of this size, the alcove sufficed.  
  
"Good Lord, it's a miracle you spotted him in this darkness," Holmes said as they walked into the welcoming dryness of the cabin.  
  
"I saw him fall overboard," Groves admitted. "I did my best to keep my eye on him. He saved my life once, but that's another story." He watched Holmes move to his patient, and turned to unlock a cabinet.  
  
Like most navy vessels, the H.M.S. Resolute carried rum under lock and key. The captain's cabin was no exception. Rum could be as dangerous as a loaded pistol in the hands of sailors.  
  
Pulling a bottle from the cabinet, Groves relocked it and went to stand behind Dr. Holmes. He watched as the doctor skillfully cut away Jack's coat and shirt, careful not to snag the piece of wood sticking out.  
  
"Here," Captain Groves handed the bottle of rum to Holmes. The older man nodded.  
  
"Come on, lad," Holmes said, putting one arm behind Jack's head.  
  
"His name is Thomas," Theodore Groves lied easily. The man's life was at stake. "Thomas Wells."  
  
"Quist, could you aid me again?" Dr. Holmes said, gesturing for him to lift Thomas' head.  
  
No one in the room believed for a moment that this was Thomas Wells. They had all heard of Captain Jack Sparrow, and if the hair and braided beard wasn't enough to tell him by reputation, the branded "P" on his right forearm topped by the tattoo of a sparrow flying over water certainly was.  
  
"Here, lad." Holmes tipped the bottle slowly into Jack's mouth.  
  
Licking his lips, Jack tried to take a sip. He was rewarded with a renewed fit of coughing and sputtering. "That's good," Dr. Holmes said patiently. "Drink a little more. You're going to need this."  
  
Jack whispered something. Holmes leaned closer, then laughed.  
  
"What did he say?" Theodore asked.  
  
"Mother's milk," Dr. Holmes chuckled. "Come on now, drink some more."  
  
Still having difficulty, Jack managed a few mouthfuls between coughs.  
  
"We could use a bed warmer, Mr. Trustwall," Dr. Holmes said politely.  
  
"Aye, aye, sir." Jamie answered softly from behind Theodore.  
  
"And more blankets. And bandages," Dr. Holmes called.  
  
"I think Francis deserves a sip of this, too," Captain Groves said, turning to look for the sailor. He stood still wet and dripping in the corner, apparently afraid of getting his captain's carpet wet.  
  
"Come here, Francis. Have a drink to warm you up." Captain Groves pulled a mug from a hook and filled it with rum. "You are a brave man," he told the sailor, handing him the mug.  
  
"To your health and to that of Mr. Wells," Francis said, a lopsided grin on his face. He drank the rum with a steady hand.  
  
"Mother of God!" came Jack's gravely voice from the makeshift bed.  
  
"Quist, I think you'll have to hold him down," Holmes said evenly.  
  
"What are you doing?" Theodore asked. Jack looked positively bleached.  
  
"I was just probing the wound, sir," Dr. Holmes said, yet his tone relayed the patience of a man who'd seen many years and answered the silly questions of many young officers.  
  
"I've got 'im, sir," Quist said. He was leaning over Jack's head, holding his arms down with one huge hand on each upper arm.  
  
"Mr.Wells," Dr. Holmes said slowly. "This is going to hurt. It must come out, the sooner the better, and when I pour the rum on it, it's going to hurt even more. Feel free to pass out."  
  
"How kind of you t'give me permission," Jack's speech came out slurred from between his chattering teeth.  
  
Grove's eyes narrowed. Jack's entire body was shivering.  
  
"Do we have anything leather he can bite down on?" Holmes looked around. "An old belt?"  
  
Theodore nodded and went to his chest. He had an old baldric too tattered to wear, now that he'd made captain. He pulled it from the back of the chest, and handed it over to Holmes.  
  
"Now, just bite this, lad." Holmes pressed the leather between Jack's chattering teeth.  
  
Wildly, Jack looked up and for the first time his gaze locked with Theodore's. Recognition flared, then Holmes moved between them. Jack let out a muffled cry, despite the leather in his mouth, and his entire body stiffened, then went limp.  
  
A few moments later, Holmes dropped a hunk of wood on the floor, then urged Quist to release his patient and hold the lantern closer to the wound.  
  
Like most men of his occupation, Captain Groves had seen men injured in battle, but it had not strengthened his ability to observe such injuries with impunity. His stomach clenched and he felt bile rise to his throat as he saw the bloody piece of wood that could have been lethal if it has strayed just a few inches towards Jack's heart.  
  
Groves saw Jamie return in silence with blankets and a bed-warmer. My bed- warmer, he noticed dully. Then he made the mistake of looking over at Jack. Blood was welling from where the wood had been and Dr. Holmes looked hard set to stop the tide with his bare hands.  
  
"I think we'll need my bag and a brazier with a hot fire," Dr. Holmes' voice was as calm as ever. "Mr. Quist, maybe you can help Jamie and speed things up a bit."  
  
The blue-eyed Sergeant nodded and went to assist Jamie with carrying one of the heavy wrought-iron braziers up from the galley.  
  
"I'll get yer bag, doc," Francis offered, taking off behind Quist and Jamie.  
  
"Good men," Dr. Holmes said, his eyes turning back to his patient.  
  
"He's a good man, too," Theodore told Holmes, his eyes going to Jack.  
  
"I know. The tales go around the ship every time a new man comes aboard."  
  
Theodore sighed. "We have to get rid of the hair. And the beard, if we're to pass him off as anyone other than who he really is."  
  
"Well, as ship's surgeon I'm qualified to shave him and cut his hair," Dr. Holmes smiled, his hands still pressed against the wound. "We'll have him fit and clean in no time."  
  
"That I will enjoy seeing." Groves turned away from the blood, picked up the rum bottle and took a swig.  
  
Mercifully, Jack did not regain consciousness that night. Dr. Holmes cauterized the wound with the long thin metal rods he'd bought in Paris for just such an occasion. He and the captain had a drink with Sergeant Quist and Francis, then the bottle was locked away and once again Dr. Holmes and Captain Groves were alone with the pirate.  
  
"It's time for Jack Sparrow to die and Thomas Wells to be born," Holmes announced as he dug into his bag. He pulled out two pairs of scissors, a very small delicate pair, and a heavier pare. "I think his head, first."  
  
"We can save his baubles," Groves said, feeling just a slight sadness at what they were about to do; rob the man of his identity. But give him a chance to live at the same time, he reminded himself. "I have a little box somewhere."  
  
He went to dig through the drawers built below the windows that ran across the rear of his cabin. Even over the roaring of wind and sea, he could hear the scissors working away. He found a comb and brush, too. He came back with them. He stopped a few feet away and watched as Dr. Holmes, as careful as he was with all things, touched and felt through Jack's hair. He gently separated the free hair from the elflocks, then cut them, pulling the strings of beads lose almost tenderly.  
  
"A good wash will do him wonders, I imagine," Holmes chuckled. "We'll need some hot water. I'll go get my shaving kit and a pot of water. We can boil it here over the brazier they brought in."  
  
Holmes left and Theodore was alone with Jack. He pulled a chair up a few feet away from the makeshift bed and watched Jack sleep. He already looked different with his hair only a few inches long and rather uneven at that. But he was breathing, which was more to say than we he was brought aboard all waterlogged.  
  
The rain was lashing the windows of the cabin and everything outside was black as only a night at sea during a storm could get. The lightning and thunder had long ago rolled past, and they were left with the gale force winds and rain coming down in torrents.  
  
Stretching his legs out, Theodore remembered back to the time Jack had saved his life. He was still a Lieutenant then, already impressed with Jack's skills as a crafty pirate. He smiled to himself. He thought he was a goner when the Frenchman pulled a gun on him. He would never play cards in a New Orleans whore house again, he promised himself. Which was not to say he wouldn't frequent one again. He and Jack, as it happened, went back to the same business two weeks later and they both got merrily drunk and raised toasts to one another's health until dawn.  
  
The sound of a brief knock a the cabin's door was followed by Holmes' face coming out of the shadows.  
  
"It must be getting late," Groves said, sitting up.  
  
"Nearly midnight," Holmes informed him. He set the end of his shaving strap over one of the hooks on the wall used to hold cups and mugs, and set a small kettle to boil on the brazier. He then used the strap to sharpen his straight razor.  
  
He had brought a mug and a bar of shaving soap, and once steam was rising from the kettle, he poured it into the mug and used a brush to whip it into a lather. He poured the rest into a bucket that was half-filled with fresh water.  
  
First he used the bar of soap on Jack's already wet hair and scalp, then he rinsed it thou roughly with the bucket of water.  
  
Sitting down beside Jack, Holmes used the smaller scissors to ship away as much of the facial hair as he could manage, including the braids dangling from his chin. Next came the white frothy lather, then Groves watched with mild curiosity as the good doctor shaved his patient. From where he sat, he could only see Holmes' back and hear the scraping of blade over whisker in a rhythmic cadence.  
  
"Done," Holmes announced, wiping the last of the soap from Jack's face. "I must say, I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes."  
  
"See what?" Groves ask. He must have nodded off, because he didn't remember much after Holmes had started to shave Jack."  
  
"Well, look at him." Holmes stepped aside, gesturing to Jack's face.  
  
Blinking, Groves stood and went closer. It was unbelievable, but clearly it must be the same man. Yet this one had the face of a choir boy with pouting full lips and lashes thick enough to please any young lady. High cheekbones curved down into a fine chin and without the head scarf to hide his eyebrows, and hair to disguise his face, Theodore realized Jack looked no older than twenty-five and quite handsome, even pale as he was.  
  
"That is truly Thomas Wells," Groves announced. "No one would believe it was the same person. No one. I have mufti around here somewhere, but I think it would be rather large on him."  
  
"And mine would be small. But we still have the clothes from Reverend Morehouse, do we not, sir?"  
  
Reverend Morehouse had been a passenger of the H.M.S. Resolute nine months ago. A missionary out to save the heathens of the Colonies. The Reverend had succumbed to a fever and died before ever reaching those he was so intent upon saving. He had left no address to which they might send his effects, so they were still aboard.  
  
"Yes, they will do nicely," Groves nodded, still sleepy.  
  
"Shall I stay up with him, sir?" Holmes asked.  
  
Looking into the older man's eyes, Groves shook his head. "He should be fine. I don't think he's strong enough to get out of bed, little alone do harm to anyone tonight."  
  
"Then I bid you goodnight, Captain." Holmes inclined his head, gathered his belongings, and left, softly shutting the door behind him.  
  
Theodore moved once more to study Jack. It was quite remarkable, he kept telling himself, that such an innocent face hid beneath the guise of the Caribbean's most notorious pirate.  
  
Exhaling Theodore began to change into his night shirt. There would certainly be rumors on board circulating like busy bees by morning. Even though only five of them had gotten a good look at Jack, more knew someone had been rescued from the sea. It would be a worthwhile exercise for him to create a history for Jack's new persona.  
  
Then it struck Theodore. What was he going to do with Jack? He couldn't just let him go. Or could he? All things considered, on their current mission to hunt down the Captain of the Muratania, they could be at sea for weeks. His best way of handling Jack was to make sure the pirate understood his life and Theodore's career were at stake. Jack would have to watch every word and never, never smile. Not with those infamous gold teeth.  
  
Lowering the wick on the lamp, Theodore got into bed, but rolled onto his side so he could look into the chart room. Jack slept fairly quietly, despite the dramatic rolling of the ship in the storm. Good. Tomorrow he would start his new life. 


	2. Chapter 2

A New Life part 2 by Kazren/Bainpeth The Characters are owned by Disney - just playing. Rated: PG for language and situations To read this with pictures - visit   
  
A persistent knocking at his cabin's door brought Theodore awake. The ship was heaving to and fro, her timbers groaning eerily as the storm continued to bombard them with wind and rain. The Resolute rode over crest and into trough, sending the cabin's lamps dipping and swaying.  
  
"One moment," the Captain called, pulling on his breeches and tucking his shirt hastily in. He reached for the lantern, its flame a mere glow, and fed it more wick. Picking it up, he carried it to the door.  
  
Groves opened the door a crack and saw one of his junior officers, Midshipman MacGregor, standing in his oil skins, holding onto the door frame for balance. "Sir, Mr. Williams' compliments, sir," the Midshipman yelled to be heard above the howl of the wind. "We've got all the sail taken in, but it looks to be a hurricane. Mr. Williams says we're not far from Jamaica. Would you like us to steer clear, sir?"  
  
How Mr. Williams knew where they were in these winds and blackness, Groves could not guess, but the young lieutenant had already proven himself something of a genius at navigating the sometimes treacherous waters in these parts. "My compliments to Mr. Williams," Groves spoke loudly. "Tell him he has my permission to make any maneuver he feels wise. And, Mr. MacGregor, wake my steward at eight bells and instruct him to prepare breakfast for me and my guest."  
  
"Aye, aye, Captain." The young officer might have saluted him, but it turned into a fight to keep his hood on as a gust of wind whipped around and Theodore shut the door against it.  
  
Crossing back toward his bed, he set the lantern down and looked at Jack. He appeared to still be asleep. A hint of color was in his face this morning. Theodore leaned in closer.  
  
Dark eyes opened and met his own.  
  
"I see you're awake," Groves stated the obvious. "How do you feel?"  
  
"Oh, just ducky." The voice was slurred, reminding Theodore of something he'd noticed that night back in New Orleans. Jack's speech pattern depended upon with whom he was speaking. When they played cards and a new person joined the table, Jack's slur was suddenly back in place. Clever dog, Groves mused, a smile tugging at his lips.  
  
"Listen, Jack. You need to pay attention to what I say." Theodore leaned in close, making sure Jack's gaze was upon him. "Your name is Thomas Wells, understand? You fell off the Muratania. You're now on board the Resolute. Got that? You're not a pirate. You don't know Jack Sparrow."  
  
Jack's eyes studied his face. "If you say so, mate, but everyone knows Captain Jack Sparrow."  
  
"You'll have to watch your speech, too."  
  
"Hows about we say I'm a spy. I like that. Has a sense of adventure, like. One of His Majesty's spies sent to investigate ole Henrich. That's how I fell off the Muratania. No, I didn't fall, I jumped off, seein' as how they was about to shoot me and we'd gotten into a battle with the Black Pearl. I was about to jump off." Jack's voice trailed off. "Got blasted. Hit with a splinter. Aye, I like bein' a spy."  
  
Theodore watched Jack's lids flutter shut. He reached a hand to feel the other man's forehead. Jack finally felt warm to the touch. Actually, he felt hot. Too hot.  
  
Well, there wasn't much he could do about it tonight. Theodore reached to pull the heavy black blanket they'd put over Jack down a little. With a yawn, he sat back down on his own bed, pulled off his breeches, and reached to once again lower the lantern's flame.  
  
Lying down, covered in his heaviest blankets, Groves still felt the chill. The Resolute continued to sing her storm song, it's eerie groans lulling him back to sleep.  
  
"Sir." Jamie Trustwall's voice interrupted Theodore's dream. He was at school again and he'd forgotten to study for an exam. Waking was a relief. The scent of hot coffee filled the cabin, chasing a little of the salt water smell away.  
  
Theodore could tell from the way the ship moved that she was in no trouble. Rain continued to lash the cabin's windows, but there was the hint of daylight beyond.  
  
A tray sat on the captain's table. "Sir, would you like your coffee now while I shave you?" Jamie asked as he did every morning.  
  
"Yes." Theodore stood, drew on his breeches and reached for his heavy dressing gown. He sat in his chair, his mug of steaming coffee a warm relief in his hands. "Jamie, I want Mr. Wells shaved every morning, too. He will understand it's for his own good." Theodore cast a glance at Jack, who slept in the chart room, his right arm across the covers.  
  
As Jamie ran his razor across the leather strap, there was a polite knock at the door.  
  
"Who is it?" Theodore called, a little annoyed that his morning ritual was being disturbed.  
  
"Holmes, sir." The voice of Mr. Holmes was muffled.  
  
"Enter."  
  
The door opened briefly, then was shut against the wind and rain. "'Mornin', sir. Jamie." The Doctor threw back the hood of his oilskin and took the cloak off. "No let up," he commented, hanging his cloak on a peg.  
  
"Good morning, Doctor. Come to see our patient?" Theodore asked. "He felt a little warm when I checked him last."  
  
A slight frown tugged at Holmes' lips. He lit a three-stemmed candelabra, then moved directly to his patient. On the other side of the cabin, Theodore could hear Jamie whipping up the shaving soap and water.  
  
"I tried to explain to him who he was," Theodore's gaze followed Holmes. "He embellished the story already. Said he was a spy tracking von der Kirchoff and he was about to jump from the Muratania when a splinter got him."  
  
The Captain watched as Holmes set the candelabra down on the edged shelf in the chart room and felt Jack's forehead. Next he checked the wound. "He probably played many roles in life," he said. "I heard he passed himself off as a clergy man once."  
  
Theodore had heard that one, too. At Jack's hanging. Luckily, it had been foiled or neither he, nor Jack would be alive today.  
  
Jamie, who had been going about his duty and paying little heed to Jack, turned around to put the soapy mixture on his Captain's face, and the steward's mouth dropped open.  
  
"Is that him, sir?" Jamie asked, obviously amazed by Jack's overnight transformation.  
  
"Yes, Jamie, that's him. Thomas Wells," he stressed the name.  
  
"Sir, I would never in a hundred years have thought that face lay hidden under that beard." Jamie was openly staring.  
  
"My thoughts, exactly," Groves admitted.  
  
"No wonder he grew the beard." Jamie began to apply the foam.  
  
"No wonder," Groves echoed.  
  
"You can't command the respect of a load of blood thirsty pirates with a face like that," James added.  
  
"Not that Mr. Wells would ever have need of such command," Theodore added. "Seeing as how he's a agent for His Majesty's government and all."  
  
"Oh, I see." The steward finished applying the lather and picked up his blade. "Well, that business is over my head, sir. I would know nothing about agents."  
  
Groves snorted. Jamie, he was confident, knew everything that occurred in the Captain's cabin. He discreetly served his captains, whoever that might be over the years, overhearing every dinner conversation, knowing who snuck in and out, and whether one or two people had occupied the Captain's bed at night.  
  
"Thomas," the Doctor said, gently shaking his patient.  
  
Groves held his head still, so as not to get nicked, but his eyes moved toward Jack.  
  
"How about a little something to eat this morning?" Dr. Holmes continued. "Are you awake yet?"  
  
Jack swam up from somewhere dark and deep that weighed heavily upon him. He forced his eyes open, regretting consciousness the moment it settled upon him. With consciousness came the pain. It burned in his shoulder and ached in his lungs, clawing its way up his throat.  
  
His vision came into focus and he saw a friendly round face touched by age and topped with gray hair trying to escape its que.  
  
"Thomas, do you want some breakfast?" the man asked. For the life of him, Jack couldn't place the man. Then he remembered the pain in the night.  
  
"You me surgeon?" he asked groggily.  
  
"Yes, I'm Doctor Holmes."  
  
"A real doctor?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"That's odd." Jack tried not to breath too deeply, afraid it would cause him to cough and he knew beyond a doubt that would not feel good.  
  
"You're right, of course. Not enough real doctors to go around. How do you feel?"  
  
Attempting to focus on the Doctor's face, Jack blinked several times. "Like the cannon ball hit me."  
  
"Luckily only a splinter hit you," Dr. Holmes told him. "I'm going to help you sit up a bit. It will not feel good, but you need to sit up. Your lungs need it."  
  
Yes, my lungs, Jack thought. Hadn't he been breathing water?  
  
Rolling up the heavy blanket, Holmes helped Jack, who felt as weak as a kitten. He edged the blanket in beneath the pillow, so Jack's head was up a little better. Unfortunately, the movement sent shafts of searing pain running from his shoulder down his chest and arm and up his neck, causing the breath to catch in his throat.  
  
"That was fun," Jack said, his voice sounding weak even in his own ears.  
  
"Here's a little coffee," Holmes said holding up a mug. "Take a sip."  
  
He put the mug carefully to Jack's lips and he took a tentative sip.  
  
"Gar, it's got no sugar," Jack turned his face away.  
  
Holmes looked to his left. "Jamie, do we have sugar?"  
  
A short man came into Jack's view, a razor in one hand, a towel over one shoulder. "In here." He handed Holmes a small pot with a spoon sticking out from beneath the lid. The man's eyes studied Jack's face.  
  
"Do I know you?" Jack asked.  
  
"Jamie Trustwall," the man told him. "I helped with your rescue."  
  
"Trustwall. I'm waiting, if you please." Grove's voice held the hint of irritation. Jack looked further over and saw Theodore sitting in a chair, his face awash in lather. Seeing him, reminded Jack of their conversation from earlier that morning. Or had it been a dream?  
  
"Try this." Holmes had the mug back under his chin and Jack looked down and gasped.  
  
"What is it?" Holmes sounded just a bit alarmed, but his alarm was nothing compared to the horror creeping into Jack's mind.  
  
"Me beard! Me hair! What have you done to me?" Jack's voice rose with the question. "Why?"  
  
"You are Thomas Wells," Holmes reminded him.  
  
"Trusted servant of His Majesty's government and all that," Groves added. "Remember?"  
  
"But my beard!"  
  
Jack felt totally defeated. He hadn't had a proper shave in over fifteen years. Then he realized his head felt different. He reached with his good arm up and felt the shorn locks.  
  
"A spy," Groves added.  
  
A smile slowly crept over Jack's face. Now he remembered. He was going to play the spy. Lots of quiet staring. Answering few if any questions. He could always grow his beard and hair again.  
  
"I'll take that coffee now, if you please, Dr. Holmes." Jack reached to help hold the cup. The sweet dark liquid filled his mouth and made its way down his sore throat.  
  
"That's good," Holmes encourage him.  
  
"It would be more than a wee bit better with rum in it," Jack said suggestively.  
  
"No rum," Groves said firmly.  
  
"You have a fever," Dr. Holmes told him. "So you will convalesce in here under the watchful eye of our Captain, Mr. Trustwall, myself and two other men who are in on our little secret.  
  
"Oh, lovely," Jack looked around and realized he was in the chart room of a small ship. "Sloop of War?"  
  
"Yes," Groves answered.  
  
"How many guns?"  
  
"Eighteen and a bowchaser. Really, Thomas, you need not concern yourself about the running of my ship." Groves emphasized the word 'my.'  
  
"Your sole job is to recover," Holmes said, looking him in the eye. "You must have a remarkable constitution to survive all you've survived already."  
  
"It's not the first time I've almost drowned," Jack told him.  
  
"There was no almost about it. You had drowned. I had one of the marine sergeants use a technique on you I'd read about in a French medical article. It worked."  
  
"Or I wouldn't be here," Jack said softly. He would have liked to go back to sleep, but Holmes went over to the Captain's table and came back with a bowel of gruel.  
  
"Have some." He put a spoon to Jack's lips.  
  
Jack took a nibble. "Needs sugar. And salt."  
  
"Do you put sugar on everything?" Holmes asked him, adding the requested ingredients.  
  
"It's not like it isn't plentiful out 'ere," Jack rebuffed.  
  
"It is not the condiment of choice back home," the Doctor told him. "How did you get a taste for it?"  
  
"This has been my home for a very long time," Jack said taking the spoon from Holmes and feeding himself.  
  
"You don't look much older than twenty-five. How long could it be?"  
  
"I'm long past me twenties," Jack said. He had eaten only a few bites, but he felt exhausted already, too tired to eat more. He let his head lay back against the pillow and let the spoon fall back into the bowl.  
  
"All done, Captain," Trustwall's voice brought Jack's attention back to Groves. The steward held a mirror up for Groves to inspect his face.  
  
Standing, Groves took the mirror and walked over to Jack. "Mr. Wells, I think I should show you evidence of what Dr. Holmes said." He held the mirror for Jack to see his own reflection.  
  
Wearily, Jack looked at his face. Except for the dark circles under his eyes, he looked almost the same as he had fifteen years ago when he'd last had a cleanly shaved face. "Yeah, I know him. That's Thomas Wells," Jack said in a tired voice. "Got to watch 'im. Sneaky bastard."  
  
Groves looked from Jack to Holmes, who stood now with the almost full bowl of gruel in his hand. "I think my patient needs rest. Mr. Trustwall, I will give you the task of giving him something to drink every hour."  
  
"Rum would be nice," Jack mumbled.  
  
"Lime juice and water with some sugar in it would be better," Dr. Holmes told him.  
  
"Lots o'sugar," Jack added softly.  
  
Groves watched Jack's eyes shut. "What about the fever?"  
  
"It will have to run its course. He needs sleep and drink and food, in that order right now. Tomorrow we start his rehabilitation."  
  
Groves saw a frown tug down the corners of Jack's mouth. Sparrow was still listening to them, even if he was too tired to keep his eyes open.  
  
"Hear that, Thomas?" Groves leaned over Jack. "You're going to be rehabilitated.  
  
Half asleep, Jack managed to whisper back, "Fat chance." 


	3. Chapter 3

A New Life part 3 by Kazren/Bainpeth The Characters are owned by Disney - just playing. Rated: PG for language and situations To read this with pictures - visit   
  
With the rain pouring down from above and the sea lashing the Resolute form beneath and all sides, it was difficult drying anything out. Sergeant Quist had been given the task of drying out all of Jack's effects. In secret. He stood in the smaller kitchen pantry, which was usual kept locked because the sailor's rum was stored there, eyeing Jack's jacket with a frown. Why they hadn't burned everything or tossed it overboard was beyond him, he thought, fingering the cloth. It was almost twenty-four hours now, and they were still damp.  
  
Picking up his rifle and slinging it over his shoulder, he exited the room and relocked the door.  
  
"What's you doin' in there, mate?" the cook's assistant asked.  
  
"None of your business," Quist snapped back with the authority of rank and arms. "This is the Captain's business. That is all you need t'know."  
  
The man turned away at that. No one would willingly cross Captain Theodore Groves. The crew of the Resolute knew they were fortunate in their Captain. Some ships were plagued by captains who were tyrants. Quist knew first hand. The last ship he'd been on, the captain had been over fond of flogging any offense.  
  
The scent of stew drew Quist's attention back to the present. Sniffing, he climbed back up the stairs to the main deck. Opening the hatch, he was hit by a blast of rain and winds that tore at his hat, despite his hand holding it down.  
  
A few more steps, and Quist stood before the Captain's door and knocked. He couldn't hear if there was an answer, so stood, getting thoroughly soaked, until Jamie opened the door.  
  
"Come in, Sergeant." He shut the door behind Quist. "Quite the gale."  
  
"Gale, nothin'. It be a hurricane right and proper," Quist said. He removed his hat and looked towards the chart room. "How's the guest?"  
  
"Mr. Wells has a fever." Jamie lowered his voice. "He is not talkin' much anymore. Sleepin' mostly. I'm a bit worried."  
  
Quist started to move forward, but stopped at the sight of his Captain's carpet. "Maybe Dr. Holmes should see him."  
  
"Maybe."  
  
Sighing, Quist turned and stuck his sodden hat upon his head. "I'll let him know."  
  
"How kind of you," Jamie smiled and moved to open the door. "Good evening, Sergeant."  
  
The Marine nodded and headed back into the howling storm.  
  
Below decks, Captain Groves concluded a meeting with his officers in the ward room. Maps of the area were spread over the table, but without a clear view of the sky, they could only guess at their location.  
  
"Thank you gentleman," Groves straightened and reached for his oilskins. The younger men didn't move. Sensing their attention still upon himself, Groves turned around. They knew. He knew they knew and they knew he knew they knew. But how much did they know?  
  
"Gentleman," he said, facing the situation head on, "as some of you may be aware, we took a passenger aboard last night. This gentleman is not to be discussed. No one is to enter my cabin, unless I personally give you permission." His gaze passed over their upturned faces. "He tells me his name is Wells, but until I have proof of his other claims, I will not bore you with them. And if what he says is true, then I'm afraid it would be considered confidential information."  
  
"Sir, he works for the government in some confidential capacity?" MagGregor asked.  
  
"So he says," Groves repeated carefully. "No more questions now, please. And if you see him on deck, he is to be given every courtesy, but do not engage him in speech. No questions."  
  
"Aye, sir," came the officers' replies.  
  
"That will be all, gentlemen." Groves slipped his oilskins on over his uniform, plunked his hat on his head and went up the stairs to the hatch.  
  
Bracing himself against the blast he knew would come, he had to fight to get the hatch open. He forced himself to walk to his cabin's door when every human instinct told him to run. Captains didn't run. He paused at the door and cast a glance at the blackness above. The Resolute was taking damage, but this time the enemy was Mother Nature.  
  
Shaking his head, he opened the door and stepped into the warmth and light of his cabin. He expected to see Jamie hovering over Jack, but was surprised to see Dr. Holmes back at the bedside.  
  
Jamie rushed to his captain's side and helped him doff his outer gear.  
  
"Good evening, Doctor," Theodore said. "How is Thomas?"  
  
Dr. Holmes stood and walked across the cabin to him. "Not well, I'm afraid. Jamie got me earlier. His fever is worsened. I'm afraid he's delirious. Cursing Barbossa. Something about a damned monkey."  
  
Groves knew who Barbossa was, but the monkey mystified him. He walked over to the bed and glanced down at Jack. The pirate's breathing was labored, his mouth open as he struggled to breathe. The coarse sound of it echoed in the confines of the chart room.  
  
"Is it contagious do you think?" Groves had to think of his crew first and foremost.  
  
"No. Most likely pneumonia, or it could be an infection from the wound." Holmes came around to stand facing Groves. "Either way, he's dry and hot. Once his fever brakes we'll know."  
  
"Know?"  
  
"If he'll live or not." The older man shook his head. "There's nothing more I can do here. Don't put more blankets on him, they'll just cause the fever to rise."  
  
It struck Theodore that Holmes was planning on leaving him alone with the sick man. He blinked, trying to form a question. "But, what do I do?"  
  
"Nothing. If he wakes, make him drink something. He needs fluids." Dr. Holmes smiled kindly and headed for the cabin door. "Good evening, Captain."  
  
Exhaling, Theodore looked at Jack. "Don't you dare die on me," he said firmly. Jack didn't respond. Groves rolled his eyes as he realized he was stupid talking to a man with delirium.  
  
Well, he would carry on as if there was nothing unusual going on, he decided. He took off his uniform jacket and pulled on his dressing gown, belting it at the waist. His gaze kept returning to Jack.  
  
There was a brief knock at the door and Jamie returned carrying his dinner on a tray. Theodore took his usual seat at the table, then realized he couldn't see the chart room with his back to it. Sighing, he moved to another chair. Jamie didn't miss a beat, but laid out the dinner and stood. "Will Mr. Wells be requiring anything, sir?"  
  
"Why don't you bring in some tea leaves and a pot of water. I'll keep it warm, just in case he wakens," Theodore requested.  
  
"Aye, sir."  
  
The hours moved by, the ship tossing in the cruel waves. Theodore sat in a chair beside Jack's sick bed, listening to the pirate mumble. There were countless women in Jack's one-sided dialogue, many a scabrous dog and scallywag, too. Then Jack grew more quiet and Theodore found himself fighting sleep. His gaze returned to the surprisingly handsome face they'd discovered beneath the beard of a pirate. If Jack was dying, Groves didn't want him to die alone. No one should die alone.  
  
"Jack," he said in a whisper. "Fight this Jack." He reached over and touched Jack's hand reassuringly. It felt cool.  
  
Standing, Groves went to the black tea Jamie had left. He put two spoonfuls into his tea pot. Lifting the kettle, he added hot water to the tea pot. He settled it back on the brazier and picked a small strainer. Placing it over his mug, he lifted the tea pot and poured the dark liquid. He took care to stir in a little sugar, then settled back in the chair to keep watch.  
  
Theodore woke to the sound of his mug hitting the floor. His first thought was of Jack. He looked over and saw that Jack was wet with sweat. That, if he understood the doctor, was a favorable sign.  
  
"Jack?" he reached to touch Jack's hand again.  
  
Jack's eyes opened enough for Groves to see the glimmer of their shine.  
  
"Jack, I have tea. You need to drink, Doctor's orders and all." Groves had never nursed another person before. When he was six he'd had a sick dog, but he'd never had occasion to nurse a human.  
  
Standing, he took the kettle from the flame and poured the rest of the water into the tea pot. He placed the strainer over a clean mug and poured the tea, then added several spoonfuls of sugar. "Come on now, Jack, drink up."  
  
With Groves holding his head up, Jack took a sip of the tea. "Good," he said in a hoarse whisper. Jack drank half the cup, then raised a hand. "'nough."  
  
"Dr. Holmes was worried about you," Groves told him, sitting back down.  
  
Jack shook his head, but his eyes closed and a small smile danced across his lips.  
  
Satisfied that Jack wouldn't die this night, Theodore stood and went to his own bed to get some sleep before it was time to get up again. The ship still rode the rough seas, but he could sense a change in the weather. The wind born rain didn't beat quite so hard against the panes of glass. Perhaps the storm was winding down.  
  
The next morning, the sun shone fitfully through ragged clouds. Theodore rose at his usual time and breakfasted alone, instructing Jamie to cook something sweet for Jack.  
  
He didn't have much time for his guest that morning. The wind had played havoc with some of the top sails and masts. Three men had been injured during the night, two were still in sick bay keeping Dr. Holmes busy.  
  
Groves strolled down to the main deck. He went to the rail and looked along the side of the ship. Some time during the storm they'd hit something beneath the waves and the Resolute was taking on water in the lower decks. The hole had been patched, but she needed to get to harbor for better repairs.  
  
Work crews organized themselves and set about making the ship as safe as possible. The Midshipmen assembled on the deck just before noon to work on their navigation skills with watch and sextant. Then came the cry, "Sail, ho!"  
  
Groves looked up at the eagle's nest. The man pointed to the south-east. Going to the cabinet behind the wheel, Captain Groves pulled out his spy glass and looked astern. It was a large ship, still very far away. As damaged as they were, it would be wise to avoid a strange ship. Usually the Resolute would lead a merry chase, but with broken cross beams and yards of rope to be repaired, he hesitated. He continued to study the approaching ship.  
  
"She's British," the man from the eagle's nest called. From his vantage point, he could see much better than those on the deck.  
  
A warm relief flooded Groves. "Heave to," he ordered. "We'll let her catch up to us. Perhaps she can escort us to port. We need repairs."  
  
"Aye, aye, sir," snapped Lieutenant Williams. He turned to relay the order to the crew.  
  
Seeing that everything was in hand, Groves went down to his cabin. Jack was sitting up eating lunch. Jamie looked on approvingly.  
  
"Now, you seem better," Theodore said, a smile on his face.  
  
"Yes." Jack flashed a quick smile, then resumed spooning the broth into his mouth. "Can't I get something' more substantial?"  
  
"Dr. Holmes ordered liquids," Jamie said patiently. "Not rum."  
  
"That I remember only too sadly," Jack told him. "But, a little brandy in the broth would make it much better."  
  
"Give up," Groves called over as he sat to eat his own lunch.  
  
"Never," Jack said softly. "Thank you, my friend, but I can't drink no more." He handed the bowl to Jamie. "I just need a little sleep." His right hand went to cradle his left arm.  
  
Jamie brought the bowl over to the tray on the side table. "Sir, is there anything else I can get for you?"  
  
"No, thank you, Jamie." Groves dug into his lunch, wondering who was on the other ship and how she'd faired in the hurricane. A thought entered his head and he turned to look at Jack. "You remember your name?" he asked.  
  
Jack nodded, pulled up the sheet, and turned onto his side facing the cabin. "I remember." He closed his eyes.  
  
"Sir?" Sergeant Quist's voice came from the other side of the cabin door.  
  
"Quist?" Groves turned to look at the door. "Enter."  
  
"Sir." Quist entered, shut the door, then came to attention.  
  
"What is it, Quist?" Groves asked.  
  
"The other ship has the commodore's flag on it sir. It's the Dauntless," the Marine reported.  
  
Theodore Groves felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. Of all the ships in the entire Caribbean, the Dauntless was the one ship he didn't want to see, not with Jack Sparrow sleeping in his chart room. How would he get through this?  
  
To Be Continued. 


	4. Chapter 4

A New Life part 4 by Kazren/Bainpeth The Characters are owned by Disney - just playing. Rated: PG for language and situations To read this with pictures - visit   
  
"Norrington?" Jack raised one brow at the news. He lay propped up in bed, his head resting back against the pillow. "Does that mean you're going over to 'is ship then?"  
  
Frowning, Theodore shook his head and continued pacing back and forth. "He'll want to come here and inspect the damage, if I know him." He big off the expletive he wanted to add to the statement.  
  
"Good Commodore."  
  
"Unfortunately for you." He turned to face Jack again. "The entire crew knows someone is here. Do you think you can fool Norrington? My God, man, he knows you."  
  
A lazy smile spread across Jack's lips. "Aye, he knows Jack, but not Thomas. I can do this, matie."  
  
"My faith is lacking." Theodore recommenced his pacing. "Try to say as little as possible and for all your life is worth, man, don't move your hands when you speak. They'll give you away."  
  
That caused the pirate to raise both brows, but he did not argue the point.  
  
"Captain Groves, do you think you could possibly hold still for a moment?" Jack's voice was soft and sounded suddenly American and rather educated.  
  
Groves paused mid-stride. "What did you say?"  
  
Jack took a look deep breath. "Since I have been injured in the course of my duties," he began again in the American accent he had just acquired, "do you think it's possible for me to recuperate in relative peace and quiet? I am an agent of the crown, you know. Mr. Thomas Wells at your service, sir."  
  
Theodore moved over to Jack's side. "That's good. No, that's bloody brilliant."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"You sounded like Northern Colonial. Exactly."  
  
Jack's smile appeared fleetingly. "Lived a year just north of New York. It's a pirate city, you know." He lapsed back into his regular speech pattern and added, "They cater to us in New York."  
  
"So, Mr. Wells, you are from the Colonies?"  
  
"Not now," Jack's eyes closed. "I'm really. . . tired." He took a long breath.  
  
Perhaps, Groves thought to himself looking at the deceptively angelic face of his guest, Jack could pull this off.  
  
A light tap at the cabin door distracted him and Theodore went towards it. Before he reached the door, it opened. Sergeant Quist stepped inside. He cast a quick glance around the cabin, spotted Jack, then addressed his Captain. "Sir," his voice was a whisper in respect for the patient, "The Commodore's ship has signaled. He will board the Resolute for inspection once they come along side."  
  
"Thank you, Sergeant. Would you please send the Commodore my greetings and that we will be expecting him."  
  
Groves watched Quist salute and leave. He touched the corner of his mouth with the tip of his tongue, an old nervous habit, then looked once more at Jack. His entire career rested on the shoulders of the wounded pirate. He hoped Jack remembered his act and remembered to keep those fluttery hands of his still.  
  
/\/\/\/\  
  
Three hours later, with the entire ship's compliment on deck to welcome the Commodore, Groves stood at the front of the line as James Norrington climbed aboard. The ship's whistle sounded, and all the men stood at attention, including the detachment of red-coated Marines.  
  
Commodore Norrington was dressed in his finest, despite the fact that his ship had to have been through the same hurricane as the Resolute. He accepted Captain Groves' salute, then Theodore fell in step beside James and the two officers walked down the line of men and up the steps to the aft deck.  
  
Captain Groves had been given a detailed account of the damage to the miles of sails, rigging and decks, which he now recited to Norrington, pausing to point out the damage visible from their vantage point which the Resolute had taken during the storm.  
  
"Sir, would you like to go below decks?" Groves asked. "There was some damage below the waterline, probably due to hitting debris from the battle between two pirate ships we saw just before the storm hit."  
  
James nodded. "Which two?"  
  
"The Black Pearl and the Muratania," Theodore told him, ushering James down the stairs to the main deck.  
  
"Hm." James paused, waiting for Theodore's men to open the door to below decks. "The Black Pearl has become more of a legend than she was with Barbossa at the helm."  
  
"How so, sir?"  
  
The door was opened by a young eager midshipman, and James and Theodore proceeded down the steps.  
  
"Jack Sparrow has become something of a Robin Hood in these waters," Norrington continued. "Surely you've heard the tales. He accumulated a vast amount of wealth at the Isla de Muerta and apparently has dispersed much of it to the poor and less prosperous."  
  
Of course Theodore had heard the stories, but he was surprised that they had reached Norrington's ears.  
  
"Will Turner and the governor's daughter believed in the man, or so I heard," Theodore commented as he lead the Commodore down another flight of steps, these steeper than the last. "I was not at the hanging that day."  
  
"The non-hanging," James correct. "Perhaps in this the two young people were correct," he conceeded, "however I have know both Will and Elizabeth for a long time, and Elizabeth has always had a romantic notion about pirates. I thought the day Jack threatened her would have changed her, but alas, no."  
  
The two officers inspected the lower decks then returned to the upper aft decks. The sun was near to setting as they leaned against the aft rail, looking back at the Dauntless, which followed in the Resolute's wake a discreet distance behind.  
  
"There's word from the Ministry of French smugglers," Commodore Norrington told Captain Groves, secure that no one else could overhear their conversation.  
  
"Smugglers? We have dealt with smugglers before," Groves assured him.  
  
"Ah, but these smugglers are bringing German, no Hessian weapons, firearms, in through North Africa and selling them to the native Indians who are attacking our outposts. They are trying to stir up war from the Hudson down to the southern most colonies."  
  
"And how do we know they're actually French behind this and not the Huns?" Groves asked.  
  
"We captured one of the smuggler's ships and killed the captain before he could destroy his orders. The arms are Hessian, shipped out of Hamburg to Tunisia by the French. They are transferred to private vessels, one of which we suspect is the Muratania. I hope Sparrow blew her out of the water."  
  
Groves simply nodded. "How would Sparrow know about this?"  
  
James turned to face him. "He wouldn't. He simply has a deep and abiding loathing for von der Kirchhoff. For once he and I agree on something."  
  
"I see." Groves wondered why Norrington was telling him these things.  
  
"I have sealed orders for you." Norrington straightened. "You will be involved in tracking down these smugglers and confiscating the weapons before they can reach the hands of the Indians in the Colonies."  
  
Now Groves understood. "No more pirate chases?"  
  
"This will be more profitable for the time being." Norrington looked down the length of the Resolute. "I think I'll take a walk. I'll join you in your cabin in a bit."  
  
"Will you stay for tea?"  
  
"Certainly?"  
  
Theodore smiled. "And dinner? Will you dine with me, sir?"  
  
"Yes, thank you, Theodore." James smiled briefly, then turned back to the Resolute. Hands behind his back, he started across to the steps.  
  
"Sir." Groves knew it was time to mention his guest. "I have a guest aboard."  
  
Norrington stopped and turned, head cocked to the side, waiting to hear more.  
  
"He is an agent of the crown, from what I'm told," Groves said slowly, making sure he said only the truth. Jack had told him, just a few hours ago, that he was an agent of the crown. "Said his name is Thomas Wells. Have you met him?"  
  
With a curious gleam in his eye, James shook his head, "No, but I would like to. How did he come to be aboard?"  
  
"That's the curious part of the story." Here it comes, Theodore thought. If he swallows this, he'll swallow the lot. "We were following the pirate ships and saw someone fall overboard, or jump overboard, it wasn't clear. Luckily, we were able to rescue him, half-drowned and hit by a wooden splinter that nearly took his life."  
  
"Remarkable. If he is working for the crown, as he says, then him being on the Muratania would make sense."  
  
Theodore did not correct Norrington, who assumed the British spy was working on von der Kirchhoff's ship.  
  
"He can't remember everything."  
  
"I assume he was masquerading as a pirate on the Muratania," Norrington theorized.  
  
"He doesn't look like a pirate," Theodore told him. "Looks like a gentlemen, except for the gold teeth."  
  
"Well, these agents can be quite theatrical and tricky characters," James smiled, as if in memory. "I'd like to meet the chap if he's up to it. Let's go directly to him now."  
  
Groves nodded and smiled. What else could he do?  
  
Knowing that Commodore Norrington would be crossing his path sooner or later, Jack reasoned. He would not do for him to meet the man dressed in a night shirt. It just didn't have style. The deep pain in his left shoulder was a constant angry gnawing. Forcing the pain to the back of his mind, Jack focused on sitting up and bringing his legs over the edge of the bed. The world swam before his eyes and his breath seemed to catch in his throat.  
  
Jamie must have seen him struggling to get up, because he rushed across the thick carpet, his feet barely making noise. "What are you doing, if I may be so bold?"  
  
Jack's eyes focused on the man's face only inches from his own. "I have t'find me clothes," Jack explained. "I can't meet the Big Guns dressed like this." He felt himself swaying precariously.  
  
Jamie reached to help Jack sit. "You look like death warmed over, Mr. Wells."  
  
Nailing him with his most haughty glare, Jack raised his chin. "Death wants his new clothes."  
  
Jamie couldn't meet those dark eyes for more than a few moments. With a sigh, the steward went to where he'd laid out the clothes he'd cleaned. With his back turned, Jack cast a quick smile his way.  
  
"These belonged to a pastor." Jamie brought the stark black and white clothes to the bedside and folded them over a chair.  
  
"Now they belong to a spy," Jack told him with a mysterious tone to his voice.  
  
"Yes." Jamie smiled. He studied Jack. "You don't want to be liftin' that left arm of yours with that hole in you, so move slowly. Raise the right one." He held the right cuff of the night shirt while Jack followed his instructions. He couldn't restrain hissed that whistled out between clenched teeth when he had to move his left arm, but they got the nightshirt off. He held it for a moment in triumph, then put it on the bed.  
  
"You've got quite a collection of tattoos," Jamie commented.  
  
There was a not much room for privacy aboard a ship, and sailors quickly learned not to stare at one another, unless they wanted a fight. Jamie, it seemed, had not learned that lesson. Jack decided to let it pass. "You may have stolen me hair, but I still have my tattoos," he grinned back proudly. "Each one a memory. Well, actually, I woke up with one I have no idea how I got, but the others are all me mementos of good times."  
  
Jamie said nothing. He raised one brow in a manor that reminded Jack of his young friend, Will Turner.  
  
Very slowly, with several pauses while Jack regained his breath, they got Jack dressed. He felt very weary and dizzy, but his determination got him through the ordeal, and Jamie's clever fingers tied the stock at his neck. Jack was barely aware of what Jamie was doing. He was fighting back the pain and the black specks that came in tides to overpower his vision.  
  
"You're a new man," Jamie commented taking step back to study Jack. "Wait a moment." He went to a drawer, pulled out a brush, and came back. Jack sat tolerantly while Jamie brushed his hair into some semblance of order.  
  
"There." The steward put the comb back and pulled out a mirror for Jack.  
  
"I know what I look like," Jack waived the mirror away with his right hand. "You don't have to remind me."  
  
"Let me help you to the chair here." Jamie returned to Jack's side and put a gentle arm under Jack's good right arm.  
  
This, Jack thought, may not be a good idea. With Jamie's help, he stood. His knees felt weak and the change in position started the fire burning anew in his shoulder, but he was master of his body. He would not let it command him. Clenching his jaw tightly, he allowed Jamie to help him walk the few steps to the armchair by the dining table.  
  
"You sit here and I'll get you some nice warm broth."  
  
"With brandy." Jack's voice had a low soft growl to it.  
  
"Fine. Just a touch. If I can talk cook out of it."  
  
Jamie left the cabin.  
  
Sitting in the chair, Jack felt almost faint. He knew the blood had drained from his face. He glanced over his shoulder. The entire row of beautiful glass windows were closed. Fresh sea air might make him feel stronger. Only a step away, he thought. Forcing himself to stand again, Jack held onto the furniture with his good arm and took one slow step after the other. Reaching the window, he leaned against the wide seal and pulled one window open. He was about to return to his chair, when he heard something very interesting.  
  
With great care, Jack made it back to the chair and collapsed into it, his head down, his eyes closed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Just as he did so, the door opened and Commodore Norrington proceeded Captain Groves into the room.  
  
"Oh, Mr. Wells," Groves sounded surprised to see him up.  
  
Slowly Jack raised his head, his eyes focusing on Norrington, first the man's knees, then his waist, chest and at last, face. He hadn't changed much in the past few years since he'd last seen the famous Pirate Hunter.  
  
"Please excuse me for not standing," Jack said in his best American accent. "I am convalescing from injuries I sustained in the line of duty."  
  
Groves, standing behind Norrington, had a somewhat shocked look on his face. "Ah.Sir, let me introduce you to Thomas Wells. Mr. Wells, Commodore James Norrington."  
  
"My pleasure," James said, pulling a chair closer to Jack's and sitting down. "You do not look well, sir."  
  
Groves was of a like mind. "You should be in bed," he said sternly.  
  
Jack raised a hand. "I could not meet such a famous, honored person as you, Commodore, whilst laying abed." He smiled with his lips closed.  
  
"I would not have you get more ill due to me," Norrington protested.  
  
"Sir," Jack suddenly sat up a little straighter, his face very serious and, he was sure, very pale, "I have urgent news I did not feel entirely free to share with Captain Groves." He leaned slightly forward, and Norrington leaned forward in his own chair to catch every word.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"It's the damned Frogs, sir. They are smuggling Hessian firearms into the Colonies using pathetic third-rate pirates and smugglers to help stir up the Indians against the colonial outposts." Jack spoke slowly, concentrating on his accent and keeping his hands holding fast to the arms of his chair.  
  
Norrington swung around and cast an "I told you so!" glance at Groves, then returned to facing Jack. "What more can you tell me?"  
  
Jack sighed dramatically. Truth be told, he did hurt. It felt like the devil's own brand was burning into his shoulder and he had to fight to retain his faculties. "The arms are shipped by the French out of Hamburg. They take them to Tunisia, where the smugglers pick them up and cross toward the Caribbean. They sail up the eastern seaboard, meeting their contacts at secluded coves." He closed his eyes. "I was caught spying on von der Kirchhoff. Heard of him?"  
  
"Yes," Norrington nodded.  
  
"Heinrich von der Kirchhoff was going to hang me, when the Black Pearl came up and started harassing her. Unfortunately, the two ships began exchanging fire. I was hit and knocked clear overboard. It probably saved my life, but I lost all my proof."  
  
"Brave man," the Commodore said. "We have gained the same intelligence, but I didn't know von der Kirchhoff was involved. If Sparrow didn't kill him, you can be assured sir, the British Navy will."  
  
Jack's smile was small, his head jerking slightly to the side, then he looked down. The darkness was threatening to overwhelm him. "I think I need a lie down," he managed, then he slumped forward in his chair.  
  
To Be Continued. 


	5. Chapter 5

A New Life  
  
Part 5  
  
Years of living life on the edge of the map had taught Jack caution. At times he actually paid attention to what he'd learned.  
  
As his mind floated lazily up from the black pit of oblivion, Jack knew two things: He was not safe. He must not speak. He did not know why he wasn't safe, or why he should not speak, but the knowing of both imbedded itself firmly in his mind.  
  
He kept his eyes shut, listening. There was only a brief moment spent in this blissful state of wakefulness without pain, then as the pain reasserted its presence it was all Jack could do not to hiss, clamp his mouth shut, and give away the fact that he was awake.  
  
He did manage it. His face remained placid, but he could feel his heart racing and he knew he was breathing more quickly than normal. At least his heart was beating, he congratulated himself. He wasn't lying dead somewhere. That thought drew his mind further into the waking world. Just where was he? Had he been in a drunken brawl again?  
  
He could hear the sounds of a ship at sea, its timbers giving off a rhythmic gentle moan, water lapping at her sides. Jack knew well he did not lay in his bed on the Pearl. So where was he and why did he hurt?  
  
Slowly memory began to filter back to him. The battle. The fall overboard and the hopeless swim after his departing ship. Then there were flashes of men's faces, pain and more pain. Groves. That was it. He had been miraculously rescued by Lieutenant...no, correction, Captain Theodore Groves. He'd been in his chart room. This was not the chart room. The mattress felt more comfortable.  
  
Norrington had been there! The thought almost sent Jack's eyes open, but he resisted the urge and continued to take in his surroundings using touch, smell and sound. He could smell lamp oil and hear the sound of a burning flame. He also felt something warm and alive touching his arm. What the on God's green earth was this now?  
  
Concentrating his attention on the warmth nestled against his right arm, Jack realized he still wore his shirt. That was a good thing, he decided. Norrington might have a question or two about Mr. Thomas Wells having tattoos up and down both arms. The warmth came from a creature with fur. He could fell that through the linen of his shirt. Interesting. Not a rat. He couldn't smell rat. It smelled like a dog. How extraordinary. How did he come to be with a dog? Had he forgotten something?  
  
Actually, yes, he reasoned. He must have forgotten a lot, or else he'd been asleep while it happened. They'd moved him. Perhaps the dog belonged to one of the crew. Sailors often snuck pets aboard the Black Pearl. But this was a Royal Navy ship, wasn't it? Did they allow that sort of thing? Highly unlikely.  
  
He could hear the rustle of cloths and besides the dog, someone else breathed in the room with him.  
  
Beyond the room, Jack heard footsteps approaching. A door opened, and the sounds beyond what must have been a small room came in. Men talking. Feet moving over wooden floors.  
  
"Lady Catherine," came a cultured male British voice, "how are you fairing?"  
  
Something like silk rustled close by Jack. "He's still unresponsive, Mr. Gillette."  
  
"The doctor said he'd lost a lot of blood, m'lady." Gillette almost sounded happy about it.  
  
"He will revive," the Lady Catherine said with assurance.  
  
"Very well, m'lady." The door closed.  
  
Lady Catherine, Jack mused. He had no idea who she was and why she would be sitting at his bedside. The dog, he theorized, was hers. Good. She loved dogs. She trusted her instinct. She had a big heart, to sit with a total stranger. How could he use this information to his advantage?  
  
Before Jack could think it through, the dog stirred and moved. He could feel and hear it sniffing his face, then it began to lick him.  
  
"Oh, Sugar," Lady Catherine said softly.  
  
Jack's curiosity got the best of him. He cracked open his eyes and saw a small white dog with fluffy fur being drawn back by a pair of slender hands. Following the hands upwards, he saw flowing lace hanging down from the woman's sleeves, a gown of soft pink and cream white, that encased a very fair and generous decolletage,. The lady's complexion was very fair and her almost angelically fair face was lit with sparkling blue eyes. Light brown hair that seemed to be fighting to escape from its confinement atop her head fell into long curling tendrils, drawing Jack's attention down her slender neck to the tops of round full breasts. She does look like an angel, he thought, holding on to his first impression of her. He attempted to make his eyes focus more clearly.  
  
"Do I..." Jack tried to speak, but his throat was so dry, his words were cut off.  
  
"Oh, you're awake. I would apologize for Sugar, but I think it's time you woke, Mr. Wells." She smiled at him, a smile that brightened the entire room and sent Jack's heart to racing even faster. "I know you must be thirsty. Here." She put the dog on the foot of the bed. Reaching for a tall cup with one hand, she used her free hand to support his head. "Now, don't gulp." She brought the cup to his parched lips.  
  
The water was cool and Jack wanted to gulp, but his mouth and throat wouldn't cooperate. Just lifting his head caused the pain in his shoulder to assert its burning grasp more firmly. He exhaled slowly.  
  
"I'm Catherine Palmer," she introduced herself. "I've told the cook to have something ready for you. Let me get the cabin boy to fetch it."  
  
In a blur of pink and cream, Lady Catherine stood and went to the door. Little white Sugar took advantage of her movement to rush up to Jack's face again.  
  
Jack closed his eyes. Maybe if he just rested for a moment, the pain would ease. It seemed worse now than it had when he met Norrington. Had he re- injured himself? He sighed and his thoughts began to wander aimlessly.  
  
Half in dreams, Jack heard the sound of the door opening again. He raised heavy lids, but his sight remained a little bleary. "Lady Catherine?" he asked, remembering to speak in his Thomas-voice.  
  
"I'm back." She set something that smelled of potatoes and beef on a table or shelf behind his head.  
  
"I don't understand," Jack managed. Putting his right arm to his left shoulder, he held his injured arm immobile, hoping that would ease the pain.  
  
"Understand?" She lifted him and stuffed something soft yet firm behind his head. His pain flashed anew. Jack hissed as he sucked in air between clenched teeth.  
  
"I do apologize if I hurt you," she said, her voice soft and comforting. "You need to build your blood. The doctor says you must eat as soon as possible."  
  
Jack nodded. He could follow the logic, but he'd rather have something strong to take the pain away.  
  
"How about a little rum?" he asked hopefully.  
  
"Food." She put a spoon filled with stew to his lips with one hand, and held Sugar back with the other. "Taste."  
  
He did taste. It was very warm, but not too hot. "Good," he said. Another spoonful of stew appeared before him.  
  
"It's good old fashion stew. Have you ever lived in England, Mr. Thomas?"  
  
Jack tried to remember if he'd said anything about it to Norrington. "I've visited. Did some education there."  
  
Stew interrupted his lies.  
  
"I have lived in the Colonies briefly," she told him. "I'm on my way to Charlottesville now. I have a cousin there. We grew up together. James said it was part of his ship's route and my father insisted it was safer."  
  
Safer than what, Jack didn't follow her line of reasoning. "I'm afraid I don't understand," Jack said quickly, before another spoonful of stew was put to his lips.  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry. I am the sister of Commodore Norrington. You met him aboard the Resolute. Do you remember? He said you were quite spent at the time."  
  
Jack's heart seemed to clench a bit. "The Commodore's sister?"  
  
"Yes. You do remember him? His ships protect the Caribbean waters from our enemies and," she lowered her voice dramatically, "from pirates. I hear the Caribbean is crawling with them."  
  
"And you're his sister?" He was stuck on that fact. What sort of luck did Jack Sparrow have, he mused.  
  
"Yes." She sighed. "My husband, Lord Palmer, died four years ago. A hunting accident. I decided I wanted to see more of the world. James asked me to come to Port Royal and complete my journey to Charlottesville with him. Of course, my father, Admiral Norrington, was the one to bring me to Port Royal. We had a bit of a family reunion." She fed Jack more stew. "I'm talking too much."  
  
"No," Jack said quickly. Now that he was feeling a little more alive, he could study her better. She looked younger than James Norrington, her features delicate and feminine and she had a mouth he would love to explore more intimately. Her enthusiasm for life reminded him a little of Elizabeth Turner, but her figure was rounded and soft looking in all the right places.  
  
"I've been cooped up in cabins for weeks getting this far. At least I had Sugar." She patted the dog, which had settled for staring at Jack as he ate.  
  
"I am surprised that you took a kind interest in a stranger," Jack said carefully. He wondered if she spoon fed the dog and if it was now jealous. The little creature looked more like a toy than a real dog.  
  
"Well, the Good Samaritan and all," she said smiling. "Are we not to help one another as good Christians, Mr. Wells?"  
  
"You seem to know a great deal about me." He shook his head as she tried to give him more stew.  
  
"James is all hush-hush about you, which is enough to make me curious, Mr. Wells. I have been told, no ordered, to ask no questions." She shared a conspiratorial smile with him and leaned in closer. "He did not say I couldn't talk to you. I decided to be your nurse."  
  
"Does he know?" Jack bet James Norrington didn't know. Her closeness also brought into sharper focus the scent of her light lavender cologne. Jack liked lavender.  
  
"He knows I've taken an interest in your health," she admitted. "Tell me, Mr. Wells, how did you get such an awful wound." She pouted prettily.  
  
Jack could not help but bring his hand up more closely to his wound in a gesture of protectivness, not quite touching it. "Wood."  
  
She raised a brow. "Wood?"  
  
"Flying wood."  
  
"All right, if you don't wish to discuss it." She sat back in her chair.  
  
"No, it's the truth. I was in a battle. A cannon ball hit the mast, knocking off a splinter."  
  
"A splinter? Your idea of a splinter and mind appear to differ greatly, Mr. Wells," she told him. "I have been told by Dr. Calvin that you are lucky to be alive."  
  
"So I've been told also, m'lady." Jack sighed. He was very tired. Must remember the accent, he reminded himself. He could feel his eyes growing heavy. He blinked several times, then closed them. There was the rustle of her silk dress, then he felt her cool touch upon his forehead.  
  
"You still have a fever," she said softly. "Rest, Mr. Wells. I'll let Dr. Calvin know you've eaten."  
  
Yes, he would rest, Jack thought, and remember not to speak unless he was fully in control of his faculties. It would not do for the sister of the Commodore to hear the voice of an old salt coming from the supposed spy. 


	6. Chapter 6

A New Life Part 6  
  
The Characters are owned by Disney - just playing. Rated: PG for language and situations To read this with pictures - visit   
  
Author's Note: I want to thank all of you for your kind words and encouragement - and my new beta reader, Julie Moran. Thank you, Julie.  
  
___________________________________________________________________  
  
This time as Jack woke, the warmth of Sugar against him was gone. Without opening his eyes he knew there'd been a change in the wind. The ship was riding more roughly. Somewhere not too far away someone was playing a small accordian. They weren't very good at it.  
  
Opening his eyes, Jack observed that instead of the lovely Lady Catherine, the chair beside his bed was occupied by a huge man. His head was dropping down to his chest and nasally breathing was coming in and out of him. His clothes were a bit on the dandified side, and Jack observed the little tassels here and there, figuring up that the tax alone would have been significant. They were not terribly clean clothes and had seen better times.  
  
Atop the large man's head was an even larger powdered wig. It's overall shape reminded Jack of a pumpkin. Not terribly well kept, little hairs were springing out of the curls of the wig on either side of the man's temples. So, Jack theorized, this man had money once, but probably does not have much now.  
  
Jack would have been content just observing the man, except that all the broth the Lady Catherine had fed him now wanted to find its way out of him. Squirming, Jack tentatively wiggled his hips. That was not good. Even the slight movement sent pain up his left arm. His right arm reached to support the injured one, and he moved his right leg over the edge of the bed until he had one foot on the floor.  
  
The position, Jack belatedly realized, was not the most helpful one for a person who needed to right himself. Half-turning to his right, he used his right arm and left leg to rise, until he could get his left leg off the bed.  
  
Somehow he managed to sit on the edge of the bed, both feet on the floor, and contemplate the effects of gravity and momentum on his injured shoulder in a most colorful way as sparks shot off inside his eyes. He closed them, taking several deep breaths to erase the effects and overcome the sensation of dizziness. He was the commander of his own body, he kept telling himself. Yes, Jack old boy, just breathe and you'll get your sea legs back in no time.  
  
Sleeping Pumpkin Head didn't seem aware of any of Jack's movements. Opening his own eyes, Jack wondered exactly where he would find the head and if he could physically walk to it. Aboard the Resolute, Holmes had at least found something to serve as a urinal for bodily needs. Jack didn't see anything that would serve here.  
  
He decided waking Pumpkin Head was the only answer, and he used his left foot to gently kick the man's leg. "Sir," Jack said, remembering before he uttered another word to use his Thomas Wells voice. "I need to use the head, sir."  
  
The giant's be-wigged head rose as the man sat up fully, looking even more enormous. "Oh, Mr. Wells, you're awake," the man said slowly. He had a well-educated diction, which spoke of wealth and schools in the south of England.  
  
Jack flashed a very brief smile to acknowledge the obvious. "I need to relieve myself."  
  
"Well," Pumpkin Head studied him as he spoke, "you're certainly not fit enough to leave this room, Mr. Wells. We have thought of that." Jack wondered if Pumpkin Head was speaking in the Imperial "we," or if he'd conferred with other people about this natural but somewhat embarrassing function. ".and we have a solution for you. I brought this from the sick bay." He reached beneath the got and slid out a chamber pot, bringing it to rest between Jack's two feet.  
  
Jack studied the metallic receptacle for a moment. It dawned upon him that he was supposed to relieve himself in the sitting position, something Jack had never been able to do since he'd been a toddler. "I have to stand," he announced, his eyes raising to meet Pumpkin Head's to emphasize his point.  
  
Now that he was awake, Pumpkin Head's full face was illuminated by the light of the candles on the nightstand. He had very pale blue eyes, a long straight nose, and his brows were such a pale shade of red-blond they almost disappeared on his face. He nodded to Jack's words. "Well, many a man has told me that before."  
  
Jack began to wonder what sort of person Pumpkin Head was that man would say such things to him. His eyes narrowed. "Who are you, sir?"  
  
"I'm Dr. Calvin, the ship's surgeon," Pumpkin Head introduced himself.  
  
Things were beginning to make sense. "Ah. I see." Jack took a breath. "Well, then, Dr. Calvin, would you be so kind as to."  
  
"You'll not be able to do this by yourself," Dr. Calvin interrupted. So much for manners, Jack thought.  
  
Gritting his teeth, and sure of himself, Jack attempted to stand. His bottom got perhaps two inches off the bed, before it fell back down. He was shaky and weak. The Doctor knew his stuff. He looked back up at the man and decided to rename him Doctor Pumpkin Head.  
  
"Let me help," the man offered. "We don't want you fainting again."  
  
That stung. Jack held up his chin, wishing at the moment that he had a bottle of rum not only to drink from, but to whack Dr. Pumpkin Head over his big white wig with before he drank from it. "I do not faint."  
  
"You passed out right in front of Commodore Norrington."  
  
At least he didn't smile as he made this announcement. Jack looked away, trying to remember. "I did not."  
  
"You did so. Turned white as a sheet and passed out. The Commodore was not expecting this, unfortunately, so you kept going right to the floor."  
  
Oh, Lord, the shame! Jack thought. Fainting like a young maiden right in front of Norrington. And Groves. He rolled his eyes heavenward for some strength. "Fine. Help me stand, then." He remembered again he was Thomas. "Please," he added.  
  
Rising from his chair, Dr. Calvin seemed to grow like some plume of smoke rising from a volcano, filling Jack's entire field of view. The man had to be at least six foot six! He reached to help him as Jack used his right arm to push off the bed. The doctor's hands were are large as the rest of him, and both went to hold Jack's left arm; his injured arm. Pulling Jack up as he stood.  
  
A stifled almost gurgling noise was all Jack managed. The pain in his shoulder seemed to shoot right up into his brain, setting off a whole new panorama of sparkling lights. He barely heard the Doctor say, "Oh dear," then Jack was back on the bedside, the world around him suddenly going dark.  
  
He fought not to pass out again. "Do not," he said in a very commanding voice, "touch that arm again."  
  
"I thought you were going to faint for sure," Dr. Pumpkin Head said. "Sorry, I forgot about the arm. I'll move around to the other side."  
  
Yes, Jack thought, you do that. Keep those monstrous hands away from me.  
  
"Shall we try again? Have you got your wind back?"  
  
"It's not my wind that is the problem," Jack said evenly. "All right. Let's try again." He prayed he wouldn't pass out, further embarrassing himself.  
  
This time, Dr. Calvin practically lifted Jack up by his right arm. That worked better. Jack stood on wobbly legs looking down at the chamber pot so far below. First things first, he thought as he tried to move his right arm to unbutton the flap on his breeches.  
  
"Allow me," Dr. Pumpkin Head said, moving his left arm to support Jack around the waist and using his right arm to reach for the buttons.  
  
Jack slapped the hand away. "I'll do it." He cast the man a black look. "I'm not an invalid."  
  
He unfastened his breeches then looked at the pot on the floor. "Seeing as you're a professional and all," Jack said, "may I ask you a question?"  
  
"Certainly," Dr. Calvin said.  
  
Twisting his head to look up at the giant of a man beside him, Jack asked, "Won't it splash right out from here?"  
  
"An acute observation. You need to pick the pot up."  
  
Jack wet his lips. "I don't think I can do that, sir."  
  
"You could sit."  
  
"Not an option."  
  
"Then, allow me to get it for you." Dr. Calvin reached down and picked up the chamber pot.  
  
"Sir, you are truly an humanitarian," Jack said with a sigh of relief.  
  
With his business was done, Dr. Calvin set the pot back on the floor and slid it with one of his massive feet back under the bed. He then held Jack steady while Jack refastened his pants.  
  
"I'll help you sit," Dr. Calvin announced, moving around in front of Jack.  
  
Putting both hands on Jack's waist, he lifted Jack up, back, then down onto the bed.  
  
"Now, before you lay down, let me put some pillows behind you, and you can sit up for a while. I want to examine your wound, then I want you to have something to eat."  
  
"Something more than broth I hope," Jack mumbled.  
  
The Doctor pulled some pillows down from behind the head of the bed, then helped Jack sit back, lifting his legs in an overall mothering manor. Jack liked it better when Lady Catherine mothered him. When she bent forward, the view of her decoupage was much more enjoyable.  
  
"Are we comfortable?" Dr. Calvin asked, a grin on his face.  
  
"We are," Jack announced imperiously.  
  
"Then let me just examine the wound." Dr. Calvin took the candelabra from the shelf beside the bed and held it in his right hand as he bent over Jack and moved his shirt aside with his left.  
  
Jack watched the way the man held the lit candles and wondered if Dr. Pumpkin Head was going to set his wig on fire. "Watch yourself, Doctor," Jack mumbled.  
  
"I won't hurt you."  
  
"No, watch yourself," Jack emphasized. "You've got the candles nigh on top of your fancy wig."  
  
Dr. Calvin jerked the candles forward. The unfortunate result was that hot wax splashed onto Jack's chest, some right onto his still red and swollen wound. He hissed in pain, his head jerking back in response, slamming into the wood directly behind him.  
  
"Oh, dear," Dr. Pumpkin Head said, "I am so sorry. Here." He had something in his left hand, Jack couldn't see what, and went to wipe the wax off with it.  
  
The touch of even the slightest pressure on the wound sent adrenaline pumping through Jack's veins and he used his good right arm to push the massive man away. "Off!"  
  
"My, my," Dr. Pumpkin Head straightened. "The wound does not look good. I think you're feverish."  
  
Jack narrowed his eyes. "It would look a bit better if you didn't spill on it."  
  
"I'm so sorry." Dr. Pumpkin Head put the candelabra back on its shelf sat down in his chair. "I'm a bit clumsy some times."  
  
"A bit?" Jack agreed, still seething at the unintended assault on his person. He reached with his good arm to rub the back of his now aching head.  
  
"That's why I'm here, at sea, I'm afraid," Dr. Calvin admitted.  
  
"What ya'mean?" Jack was caught off guard.  
  
"Well, you see, I was a successful physician, practicing my arts, when I had a little accident one day that caused a permanent damage to someone in the Royal family." He looked very remorseful. "I lost my customers, my reputation, and my only resort was to join the Navy."  
  
"It doesn't hurt much," Jack lied.  
  
"Well, I do apologize."  
  
Dr. Calvin still held the fluttery thing he'd attempted to wipe Jack with, and Jack now saw it was a lace-edged handkerchief.  
  
"You have a lot of little accidents?" Jack asked him.  
  
The man nodded.  
  
"I have a theory about such things." Resettling himself against the pillows. "You can't let one thing get you off, or it turns into a series of things, savvy? You lose your own self-respect and you practically cause things to happen. I knew a fellow like that once upon a time."  
  
"Well, Mr. Wells, you're certainly not cursed with clumsiness, like me," Dr. Calvin looked him right in the eye.  
  
"No, it really was a young fellow I knew. He ended up washed overboard. Bad luck."  
  
"Or the curse of having two-left feet," Dr. Calvin added.  
  
Both men sat in silence for a moment.  
  
"Dr. Calvin?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Tell me. Is Lady Catherine. I mean, has she a beau, a suitor?" Jack asked carefully.  
  
"Not that I'm aware of." Dr. Calvin's gaze met Jack's. "Are you volunteering for the part?"  
  
"She is quite lovely, isn't she? Far too above me in station, I'm sure, but maybe she'd fancy a little.sport." Jack knew he shouldn't be talking to this man about such things, but Dr. Calvin had just confided in him and Jack felt a need to show his own feelings to the man. He couldn't talk about his biggest secret, so a little one would have to do.  
  
"She is very kind," Dr. Calvin said slowly. "I don't think she's the kind to get into sport, as you put it. I think she's the kind who falls in love for good." His gaze roamed over Jack, as if taking his measure. "You're a hansom man, Mr. Wells. Do you go around breaking ladies' hearts?"  
  
Jack put his hand to his chest, his eyes going wide in innocence. "Me?"  
  
"Don't try that on me," Dr. Calvin chuckled. "I'm well aware there's more to you than meets the eye."  
  
"I'll have you know," Jack said seriously, "Most women end up slapping me for no good reason. It's my heart that gets broken." He thought for a moment. "It's probably because I can't stay in one place. I'm prone to falling into adventures, you see."  
  
Dr. Calvin sighed. "My life has not been an adventure. The work of a ship's surgeon is not pretty. Speaking of such, I'll just empty this out," he reached for the chamber pot, "and bring you something fortifying."  
  
Jack watched the man as he stood, again filling the entire small cabin with his height and breadth, then left. Idly Jack hoped Dr. Calvin washed his hands between one thing and another.  
  
To Be Continued. 


	7. Chapter 7

A New Life - Chapter 7 To see with photos go to:   
  
The familiar sounds of the ship, her timbers groaning in time to her riding the waves of the still agitated Caribbean waters, flowed through Jack. He couldn't help but compare them to the sounds of his beloved Pearl. As he stared off into space, his thoughts flew to the Pearl, her crew, his friends. He wondered how she'd done in the battle and the subsequent storm. He could imagine her, the winds lashing her, her crew fighting to just keep her safe.  
  
A sigh escaped his lips. He opened his eyes, not having realized he'd closed them, to see Commodore Norrington sitting where the Doctor had been - what? - half-an-hour ago.  
  
Like cold water, memory of his very dangerous situation washed through him. Thomas Wells, he reminded himself. He saw concern on the Commodore's face, not distrust. Not anger. Not even suspicion. But there was something else.  
  
"How may I be of service?" Jack asked in his Thomas voice, still a little rusty and dry.  
  
The Commodore looked a little discomfited. His gaze went down to his knees, then back to Jack. "I am wondering how you feel, Mr. Wells," was what came out of his mouth, but Jack could see there was something else going on behind those green eyes.  
  
There the man sat, holding Jack's life in the palm of his well-manicured hand, his powdered wig left behind somewhere, but all business, nonetheless. Jack couldn't help but wonder why the Commodore, who was after all the king of his ships, would come in person to ask how he was feeling. Something was up.  
  
The trepidation that had clutched Jack's gut began to release its cruel hold. He wet his lips and smiled, just a quick small smile, up at the imposing officer. "I'm fine."  
  
"No, you are not fine," Norrington countered. "Our ship's doctor tells me you are lucky to be alive."  
  
Again the quick smile. "I've been told that before," Jack said quietly, his eyes studying the sheets covering him. He looked up, brown eyes meeting emerald ones. Time to come on strong as Thomas. "The Good Lord has saved me for a purpose, Commodore. I'm here to serve my King and country, don't you think?"  
  
Norrington looked back thoughtfully. "When you are better, Mr. Wells. That's something I think we should talk about." He leaned forward, his voice lowering to the tones of a fellow conspirator. "I would like to accompany you, when you're better of course, to collect some information about these firearms sales in the colonies."  
  
"It's not just the colonies," Jack assured him. "They're going in through New Orleans." This was true. Jack had attacked a French ship flying German colors six months ago and confiscated the cargo, much of which was firearms and ammunitions, all bound for New Orleans.  
  
"Ah." Norrington nodded thoughtfully. "Where would we be able to obtain the most up-to-date information about these sales? Who is getting them? Who is supplying them?"  
  
Jack bit his lip thoughtfully, remembering to keep his hands still, pressed against the top of his sheet. It was a most unnatural way for him to speak, his hands quiet, only his mouth doing the communicating. "Well, there's the Caribbean here. Jamaica. Tortuga. St. Vincent even. And, of course, New Orleans. But that would be dangerous for you."  
  
The Commodore nodded, his gaze leaving Jack's face and rising up to the rafters close overhead. "Sailing is dangerous, Mr. Wells. It's all a matter of what a man's willing to do or not do."  
  
"What a man can do or cannot do," Jack echoed a thought he'd voice with young Will not that long ago. Such thinking reminded him that the Commodore had lost Elizabeth to Will. He wondered if that wound was healing.  
  
"Once the doctor says you are fit to proceed, we will go. Together," Norrington concluded. "I think New Orleans would be the best choice." He looked to Jack for conformation.  
  
"By all means," Jack nodded. He loved the city with its numerous taverns, brothels, and merchants who treated a pirate like a king. Perhaps he would have a chance to slip away from his Royal Navy companion and get back to his ship. At least he should be able to send them word he was alive and well. Almost well. He knew he was still too weak to even walk the decks, but time would take care of that. He smiled, this time more sincerely up at the Commodore.  
  
"New Orleans it is then," Norrington smiled back, but the warmth of the smile did not reach his eyes.  
  
"Oh, Commodore," came the doctor's voice from the door. "I have Mr. Wells' soup. It's just the thing to cure him."  
  
Jack looked past the Commodore as he stood to allow Dr. Pumpkinhead back into the diminutive cabin. The good if somewhat clumsy doctor held a tray filled with items, all looking highly dangerous in his hands.  
  
"Here, let me," the Commodore offered, taking the tray and turning to set it down on the small table beside Jack's bed. His gaze met Jack's and for one brief moment the two shared the same thought: The Commodore somehow knew Jack was leery of having the doctor anywhere near him with hot liquids.  
  
"Thank you," Jack spoke very softly. He made a mental note; Norrington was a thoughtful person, kind, considerate. Jack wondered how he could use that piece of information to his advantage. 


	8. Chapter 8

To read this with pictures - visit The Characters are owned by Disney - just playing. Rated: PG for language and situations  
  
A New Life - Chapter 8  
  
Three days in pitching rough seas passed before Jack was allowed up on deck by the good, if not overly clumsy, Dr. Calvin. Three days which Jack spent in the company of the delightful Lady Catherine, the somewhat dangerous Dr. Calvin, and most surprisingly Commodore Norrington. Apparently James, as he insisted Jack call him in private, found Thomas Wells a fascinating person. This turn of events may have been precipitated by Jack himself, who told tales of adventure to entertain his visitors. He wove in the threads of incidents that had actually happened to him with the colored fabric of pure invention based on half-truths and speculation. These stories, he realized only after he'd started, could be his downfall. If James had an opportunity to track them down to establish their truth or lack thereof, he would see through the sham and, most likely, turn on Jack. But for now, all three of Jack's guests found him tres amusant, if somewhat reluctant to go into details. As he relayed one of his more colorful exploits, Jack would get to a point in his story and wink, or say something like, "That's best left unsaid. You understand." And, of course, his visitor's didn't, but pretended they did. The Lady Catherine always came with her little white dog, Sugar, who continued to find Jack fascinating. He'd never owned a dog, though one did adopt him for a few months once when he was stranded in northern Africa. It had died defending him from some hoodlums who had decided he looked like easy prey. Something in Sugars deep brown eyes, perhaps their unqualified acceptance of Jack for himself, reminded him of that raggedy dog in Tunisia. As part of his recuperation, Jack forced himself to eat the soups and stews they brought him, though he longed silently for some rum. He slowly felt his strength return. On the third day of his confinement, after he had demonstrated to Dr. Calvin that he was perfectly capable of walking around in his cabin, the ship's physician gave him permission to go above decks for a few minutes. With a sigh of relief, and without thinking to grab his jacket, Jack bounded for the door of his cabin, thanking Dr. Calvin as he brushed past him. "Take it easy," the doctor's voice called after him. "You may find yourself out of breath easily." Yes. Whatever you say, Jack thought to himself, determined to enjoy some fresh salt-water scented air.   
  
He made his way fore and up the steep steps. Half-way up he noticed he needed to hold onto the rope rail to keep himself upright. He looked up at the open hatch and the golden sunlight pooling in, splashing on the upper stairs and determination gripped him. Gritting his teeth, Jack forced himself upward one step at a time. By the time he reached the open hatch, he was exhausted. He climbed slowly out, holding on to a barrel to keep himself upright. It was still mid- morning. The wind was strong, blowing west from Africa with the scent of more storms to come. It was hurricane season, after all, Jack thought, turning to look toward the east. It was dotted with distant clouds, the front end of the approaching squall. Breathing deeply and enjoying the sensation, he made his way carefully to the rail and held on to its sun-warmed wood with both hands, oblivious for the moment of the people watching him. His focus was on the glint of silver and white off the wave tips, the way the ship's shadow danced across the surface of the sea, and the sensation of movement up and down. It reminded him deeply and almost painfully of his Black Pearl and for the hundredth time he wondered where she and her crew were and how they faired. Turning his dark head to look up at the plump, wind-filled sails, Jack's gaze crossed the poop deck and locked with the Commodore's. Norrington stood, his hands behind his back, looking for all the world like the epitome of a Royal Navy officer; proud, with his gold filigree, his powdered wig, every hair in place, and his tri-corner affixed firmly atop his head, James Norrington was the power on this ship. That power was focusing his attention on Jack.  
  
Flashing a quick, tight-lipped smile, Jack continued his scan of the deck. Apparently he was the news. Everyone had paused in their chores and was simply staring at him. For a moment, Jack wondered if he'd forgotten to button up his breeches. Novelty, he told himself. They didn't see Jack Sparrow. They saw Thomas Wells, His Majesty Agent in affairs best left unsaid.  
  
Turning back to the waters, Jack took in a long sigh. How on earth was he going to carry on this charade? He had to constantly remind himself to hold his hands still when he spoke. To speak with the affected accent he'd chosen for Thomas. And to walk stiffly, like a preacher with a broom up his bum. This was truly going to go down in the journal of Jack Sparrow as his most spectacular impersonation. Yet, if there was no Thomas Wells, was it an impersonation, he wondered. Or was it more of a creation? Yes, that sounded very good. A Jack Sparrow, a Captain Jack Sparrow creation.  
  
His knees felt more than a little wobbly, but he was reluctant to leave his post by the rail. He pressed them up against the ship's side and imagined himself, hair back to its usual length and fashion, dressed in an outstanding new and brilliantly piratical outfit, telling his tale to his crew as they took shore leave at some port town filled with the scents of spices and cedar, rum and ale.  
  
Waves of trepidation fluttered against Jack's spine before he was aware that the Commodore had come up behind him. Gads, but for his height, James moved very quietly. It was the second time he'd done that to Jack, whose already racing heart seemed to skip a beat. He turned, leaning back against the rail for support, wondering if James had seen through his disguise at last.  
  
But, no. James had a concerned look in his eyes as he studied Jack. "Mr. Wells, you do not look well," he said, his lips pursed. "Perhaps I should have Mr. Cartwright help you back to your room." He snapped his hand toward a nearby sailor, who had been listening to his Commodore's every word.  
  
Jack opened his mouth to protest, remembered who he was, and simply nodded as he said, "I'm very grateful, sir."  
  
Mr. Cartwright, a man who could not have been even five feet in height, came to take Jack's left arm.  
  
"Not there," Jack quickly jerked it away, which amplified the constant pain there, causing himself to wince.  
  
"The other arm," Commodore Norrington told the sailor.  
  
The wind decided at that particular moment, as Jack leaned back against the rail for support, to flap at his only half-buttoned shirt. Jack's eyes were closed, but when he opened them, James was staring at his chest with a peculiar look on his face. By the time Jack looked down, he could see no reason for such close scrutiny. His gaze rose back to meet James'.  
  
The helpful Mr. Cartwright was oblivious to this silent exchange. He had walked around the Commodore to Jack's right side, and gently took his good arm.  
  
"Thank you," Jack said, and he could hear the strain in his own voice. He leaned rather heavily on Mr. Cartwright, who guided him back to the hatch and helped him as he slowly descended back into the darkness of below- decks.  
  
It did not go unnoticed to Jack that James was following him. He bit his lip in consternation, wondering what was going on.  
  
He was helped back into his cabin and onto the bed, where he sat, cradling his left arm, as James entered and shut the door behind himself.  
  
"Tell me, Mr. Wells," James said, his tone all business, "is it customary for His Majesties servants, those in your particular line of work, to get tattoos?"  
  
Now Jack understood. He reached to pull open his shirt and reveal the tattoo the Commodore must have seen. "This one?" he asked. "I have more, actually. Part of what I had to endure in order to pass myself off as a pirate."  
  
"Oh. I see." James' face relaxed slightly. He studied Jack. "I imagine you had to do more to disguise yourself than tattoos."  
  
"Yes." They were treading on dangerous ground here, Jack realized. If James tried to imagine him with a beard or longer hair, he might see a picture of Jack Sparrow in his mind's eye. "I wore a patch over one eye," Jack added. "It was a good place to hide a gold coin, too, just in case I was ever in need of money. For a while I had tied some coins in my hair, but some brute decided he needed money and chopped my hair with a boarding axe."  
  
"Goodness gracious," James responded, lulling Jack's fears somewhat. "It sounds like you risked your life quite often for King and country."  
  
That stumped Jack, he momentarily could think of nothing to say as he stared down at his knees. When he looked back up at James, he saw a look of simpatico in his eyes. James must have taken his silence as confirmation, Jack decided. Great, another detail to add to his Thomas Wells character: stoicism.  
  
"Sir, did you need me for something?" Jack asked, hoping he sounded like a brave and willing if somewhat suffering civil servant.  
  
"Ah, no," James backed toward the door. "You rest, Thomas. I'm sure your little trip upstairs was taxing. Do you think you'll be up to dining in my cabin tonight?"  
  
Jack opened his mouth. Closed it. Then said, "Yes," very clearly. "That is very kind of you, sir."  
  
"James, please."  
  
"James," Jack repeated, flashing a quick, closed-mouth smile. He watched James open the door, incline his head in lieu of a good-bye, and exit. It was only when the cabin door was once again closed and Jack realized how very well his charade was working that he allowed himself to relax back onto the bed. Bringing his feet up, and staring at the wooden rafters above him, a thousand thoughts flooded his brain, uppermost of which was that he could not have imagined Commodore James Norrington inviting him to diner in a thousand years. Yet that was exactly, well, almost exactly what had happened. James had in fact invited Thomas, after all, not Jack; but since they were one and the same, Jack reasoned, the Commodore had invited the pirate Captain.  
  
His thoughts grew a little confused as his eyes fluttered shut. Tonight would be interesting, he imagined. Very interesting. 


	9. Chapter 9

A New Life  
Part 9  
  
The Characters are owned by Disney – just playing.  
Rated: PG for language and situations  
Author's Note: Don't blame the beta-reader, I was again anxious to get it up and Pam only got the  
first part of it.  
  
The Commodore was very accommodating, Jack thought as he dressed for the dinner party. A  
seaman had been sent to escort him to the Commodore's cabin. Translation: He couldn't climb those  
bloody stairs again without help and everyone knew it.  
  
Jack signed. Just tying the stock around his neck was difficult when his left arm refused to rise the  
required distance. Obviously Seaman Amos Sterling would not know how to do it properly, so  
Jack had to sit on the bed and lean into the little table to support his left elbow as he attempted the  
job himself. Which should have been so easy. Which was difficult as hell.  
  
It wasn't as if he hadn't suffered some amount of blood loss before. Those wicked, truly mad  
butchers on Madagascar had nearly killed him with all the blood- letting when he had the fever a few  
years ago. If he'd been in his right mind, he would have murdered them. Well, stabbed them, at the  
very least.  
  
Somehow the stock got nicely tied around his neck, though he suspected it was a little lop-sided.  
He didn't care. He gestured to his coat and had young Amos help him into it, tight sleeves and all.  
What sort of fashion was this, anyway? It had measly cuffs, almost no buttons. The previous owner  
must have been stingy, or else his tailor was.  
  
The last thing to do was comb his hair. He was reminded anew of his loss when he ran the comb  
through his shorn locks. He missed all his dangly bits, the coins and trinkets of his traveling, a diary  
really of his various adventures. But it was cut off now and he had to live with it. His face, too, had  
been shaved clean, thanks to another visit from the Commodore's steward, Mr. Merribee. Jack felt  
his face, cringing at the smoothness. How could he be a fierce pirate with a face as smooth as a  
doxy's bottom?  
  
"Ready, sir?" Amos asked hopefully. He'd been watching Jack's every move with interest, his  
intensely blue eyes never leaving him.  
  
"Tell me, Amos," Jack turned to face the younger man fully, "what do the crew know about me?"  
  
A bright smile crossed Amos' tanned face. "That you is a spy, sir."  
  
"So much for secrets," Jack mumbled. "Amos, you must tell them all I'm just a plain government  
worker. Nothing glamorous. Understand?" He tilted his head to the side, watching the emotions  
flee across Amos' face.  
  
"Oh, aye, sir." Amos winked giving Jack a knowing look.  
  
Jack rolled his eyes. "Let's get me to the Commodore's Cabin." He tapped his knuckles against  
Amos' chest and headed out of his cramped quarters.  
  
The stairs seemed even longer and higher than Jack remembered. He was winded after just a few  
steps, and if it wasn't for Amos' arm around his waist, Jack would have stopped short. As it was,  
when he got to the landing, he had to catch his breath and lean more heavily on Amos.  
  
"Can we take a little rest?" His gaze went from Amos to the remaining stairs rising up towards the  
hatch.  
  
"Aye. They say you killed that Dutch bastard. You and Captain Sparrow," his escort said in a  
whisper.  
  
"One can only hope" Jack panted. "What do you know about Captain Sparrow, Amos?"  
  
The expression on the man's face changed once again. "He's somethin' of a legend, 'e is. Not just  
for his work on the water, if ye get me meaning." He gave another knowing wink.  
  
"I don't follow." If not his piracy, what did the fellow mean?  
  
Amos leaned in closer and whispered after looking left and right to make sure no one was close  
enough to overhear them. "The ladies in the ports talk about ole Jack Sparrow."  
  
Jack's heart lifted for the first time in days. "Really. Do tell."  
  
A little giggle escaped Amos' lips. "The ladies, sir, they say the good Captain is quite the." He used  
his hands in a vulgar gesture to demonstrate. "Quiet the pintle he has, sir." He continued to  
demonstrate by holding his hands up. "Quite fortunate, 'e is."  
  
Jack's brows rose only slightly. So they remembered him fondly, did the dear ladies of the ports?  
Well, the feeling was mutual. "Come on, my good man. Let us climb this mountain before I give up  
the ghost." He gestured with his eyes to the stairs.  
  
His companions blue eyes opened hugely. "Yu'r not be dyin' on me, would ye, sir?"  
  
"No, but I can wish." Jack threw his arm over the man's shoulders and they continued up the stairs.  
  
Now that Jack had gotten Amos on to the subject of himself, although of course Amos didn't know  
it, the young seaman continued, talking about Jack's exploits. They weren't quite as Jack  
remembered them. There were dramatic bits that seemed to have slipped from his memory, but the  
chatter helped him climb the stairs and soon they were entering the Commodore's Cabin and Amos  
stopped talking abruptly.  
  
Jack almost fell into a chair before anyone could offer it to him, his hands gripping the arms, his head  
thrown back as he concentrated on breathing. His heart beat so hard and fast, Jack wondered if it  
would leap out his mouth.  
  
"Mr. Wells. Are you well?" The Commodore's voice held just the hint of concern.  
  
Jack opened his eyes, not realizing he'd closed them, and looked up. Norrington appeared  
concerned, with furrowed brows and the corners of his mouth turned down. Jack knew that look.  
It was the look of disapproval he'd used on Jack the first time they met.  
  
"I shall live." It was all Jack could manage to gasp out. Then, "Thank you."  
  
"Some water," the Commodore held out a glass and Jack took it, gratefully drinking a few sips  
between breaths.  
  
"Thank you, again," he managed. "I'll be fine. Just a bit winded." He concentrated on speaking in  
his Thomas Wells voice. When he was fatigued it was all too easy to forget who he was supposed  
to be. His memory was suddenly flooded with the odd look on James' face earlier that day when  
they had been up on deck. What had the Commodore seen just before Jack left to go back below  
decks. His mind reeled at the possibilities and it suddenly hit him. His lips parted in something akin  
to shock.  
  
"I couldn't help but overhear your arrival." Norrington stood beside the chair. "I gather you were  
discussing the exploits of Jack Sparrow."  
  
"As it happens," Jack began, his mouth talking but his brain screaming at it to shut up, "I am more  
familiar with him than many. You see, I had to impersonate him upon occasion, and the  
impersonation had to be perfect, or I would lose my life." Well, that would explain to Norrington the  
tattoo, if that was what he had reacted to on the deck. What else could it have been? James had  
already seen the gold in his teeth. That curious look had to have been in response to the tattoo, Jack  
reasoned.  
  
"How intriguing." It was the mellifluous voice of the Commodore's lovely sister, Lady Catherine.  
Odd that Jack hadn't noticed her until how. He looked beyond Norrington and saw that he was the  
last to arrive for the dinner. Everyone had heard what he just said about impersonating Jack  
Sparrow. Lovely.  
  
He smiled weakly, nodding. Now he would have to come up with one hell of a story and his brain  
was whirling away, throwing insults at his mouth for having breached the subject. His heart still  
hammered away and all the jabbering did not help his breathing.  
  
"James, the poor man needs some brandy," Lady Catherine chastised her brother.  
  
"Good idea," Jack mumbled. He smiled at her and she seemed rather angelic, having made the  
suggestion and standing with the light of the ships windows behind her. "Your kindness is much  
appreciated," he managed to tell her.  
  
Mr. Merribee handed Jack a glass of a brown liquid. Jack raised it to his lips, inhaled the sweet  
scent of fine brandy, and took a tentative sip. The delightful burning sensation traveled from his  
tongue down into his gut, and he sighed. "Thank you, Commodore, Lady Catherine." He raised the  
glass to them before taking another sip. This was no cheap brandy. No the expensive stuff. His  
opinion of the Commodore went up a notch.  
  
"Wine, whiskey and brandy are known to have healing effects," Dr. Calvin joined the conversation.  
  
"You don't say." That snively voice belonged to Gillett, Jack was sure of it, even though the man  
appeared to be hidden behind the bulk of Dr. Calvin, who turned, revealing the bewigged officer.  
  
"Oh, yes, I've seen dying men revive on a good alcohol," Pumpkin head continued.  
  
Jack smiled pleasantly, realizing he was the only person seated. Everyone else stood clustered  
around his chair. He sipped his drink, listening to their conversation, hoping they would forget his  
indiscreet moment of fantasy.  
  
"Dinner is served, sirs, madam," Mr. Merribee announced. He came forward to Jack, who raised a  
quizzitive brow. "Sir, may I assist you?"  
  
"Oh, thank you, Mr. Merribee." Jack allowed the man to help him stand.  
  
Jack had studied Mr. Merribee quite thoroughly earlier, when the steward had shaved him. The man  
was older than himself, a few inches shorter, but just as thin and wiry-muscled as Jack. He has wise  
brown eyes and a bit of gray in his long hair and beard, the former neatly braided in a queue down  
his back.  
  
Once Jack was on his feet, another seaman who was serving table moved the chair Jack had been  
sitting on up to the table, right at the Commodore's right hand, and Jack was forced to sit. He  
wondered if the Commodore had even the slightest clue who sat beside him as he presided over the  
dinner from the top of the mahogany table set with sterling silver and fine china.  
  
It had been a while since Jack had shared a mean with genteel people. Once, when he  
impersonated a Spanish Ambassador, he had learned to eat like a courtier. He knew what to do  
with his the linen cloth beside his setting, and which fork to use, how to hold his utensils. But that  
had been almost a decade ago. Therefore, he carefully watched the others, especially Lady  
Catherine and Norrington and mimicked their actions.  
  
Somehow, Jack made it half-way through the entrée, and all the way through his first glass of  
brandy, before Mr. Gillett said, "Mr. Wells, you were telling us about the time you impersonated  
Jack Sparrow. I pray you continue, for I am sure there is much amusement in this tale."  
  
His eyes opening wide has he tried not to choke on the mouthful of bread and butter he'd just taken,  
it was all Jack could do not to glare at the younger officer. Time to put on his Long Tales cap, he  
told himself, smiling politely as he finished chewing and tried to swallow the suddenly dry bread.  
This ought to be a good one. 


End file.
